


Kansas

by aDarkerKnight



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman
Genre: Drama, First Meetings, M/M, POV First Person, Pre-Capes, Pre-Slash, What if?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-15
Updated: 2008-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 23:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aDarkerKnight/pseuds/aDarkerKnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Out in the middle of nowhere, two would-be heroes find something they'd always needed, though hadn't been looking for - each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> _For Jana without whose never-ending support and encouragement I would never have been able to write this all the way to the end._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> =:=
> 
> Before you start reading, there are a few things you should probably know.
> 
> Bruce Wayne is from the movie-verse. More specifically, he's from _Batman Begins_.
> 
> Clark Kent is from _Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman_. There were things about this Clark's background that made him perfect for this tale. Besides, let's not kid ourselves: their Clark is totally hot! I mean... the towel scene – half-naked and dripping wet - from the pilot episode?
> 
> I've had to mess with the timeline – and with history - something serious for this story to work. The timelines from Lois & Clark and Batman Begins really do not line up at all – there's a ten-year time difference between the series and the movie and that just would not work unless I fiddled with temporal mechanics. Thank goodness for H.G. Wells. *g*
> 
> And while some events are identifiable as having taken place in the spring of 1989, it would have been just about impossible to have Bruce go through Afghanistan – unnoticed – during the Russian occupation, so... I'm just going to whistle innocently and claim that this is an alternate universe.
> 
> I hope you will forgive me for taking such liberties with timelines and history.

There are people you meet in life that have a profound effect on you, whether through words or actions – sometimes both. People who, whether they meant to or not - and sometimes without even realizing it - will force you to change. Change how you think or how you act. Change who you are. Make you into a different person than you thought you would turn out to be. A different person than who you thought you could be. And sometimes, when you're lucky, it's a change for the better.

I met someone like that, once.

I was traveling to Nepal when we first met. I had just spent some time in India and was headed to China, where I would eventually go on to train in martial arts techniques. I guess I detoured in Nepal for the same reasons anyone else does. To see the world's highest mountains, or find the meaning of life in Kathmandu. Something of the sort. Though the real reason was that I was running away. Trying to escape who I was; who I was expected to become. Or maybe I was trying to _find_ myself. My true self.

What I did find, though, was not what I had hoped – or even expected. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined this outcome. Not even close.

And as I sit here tonight, in the darkness of my bedroom in Gotham City, I can't help but wonder if I will ever find _him_ again.

The very first time we met, we were about to get on a transport vehicle; off to cross the border into the small landlocked nation at the top of the world. He was just a face in the crowd at first. A face that seemed mostly Occidental, though not decidedly so. And while he clearly stood out in a crowd of Asian people, towering above even the tallest of these men, he was not someone I paid much attention to at first. I doubt he was very interested in me, either.

But things happened then and, from being just a face in the crowd, he went on to become an important part of my life. The closest thing to a center to my chaotic universe.

It's been four years now since I slipped out of his flat, in the middle of the night, and "escaped". At the time, I had convinced myself it was the right thing to do. The right thing for _me_. The truth is that I was afraid to admit things out loud to someone else. Certain very specific things, which I would not even admit to myself. I just wasn't ready.

I was well on my way out of Nepal when I realized I had been wrong – monumentally wrong. But when I went back, I saw that he was no longer there. There was nothing left of him at all. He had cleaned out the place completely, from top to bottom, without leaving a single clue as to where he had gone.

He had disappeared – literally – without a trace, leaving me with little to no hope of ever seeing him again. I hadn't the faintest idea how or where to find him. And thanks to one of my many admittedly stupid rules, he had never even given me his real name. I had taken to calling him _Kansas_ , as this was where he'd said he was from. That was the only fact he had ever shared about his identity.

I have spent the last four years of my life desperately trying to locate him. Four years of regrets and gut-wrenching guilt. For having left without an explanation. For having left him behind like I would have a disposable object. For not having had the courage to admit to my feelings. Four years of silently begging for forgiveness and hoping that, should I ever manage to see him again, he'll find it in his heart to forgive the actions of a fool.

Deep down, I know I should let it go; bury the past and move on. Close that book once and for all and get on with the rest of my life. But as much as I would like to be able to forget and let the wound heal for good, the fact is that I'm just not able to. And not simply because moving on is not something I have ever really learned to do.

For one thing, there is just no way to forget someone who has had such a profound influence on you. But it's not the fact that he played a part in shaping the person that I have become that matters so much. No... It's the intrinsic knowledge that without him, I am not complete; that I need him to be a part of my life just as much as I need air to breathe.

In losing him, I've lost something I had never realized I needed to begin with. Something I had been missing my entire life before I met him, yet did not even know I lacked. My soul.  



	2. Prologue

_Somewhere along the India-Nepal border. Four years ago._

I've been in Asia for close to a year, now. I started off near Izmir, in Turkey, where I spent some time with – of all things - a biomedical research team that Wayne Enterprises was funding. I stayed with them as long as it was useful; just long enough to get my plan in motion. I don't usually pretend to care what the company is dealing in, but in this case it was a perfect opportunity to vanish - into thin air - without anyone even realizing that I was gone. You have no idea how closely your every moves are being watched when you're worth this much money.

Following a team of researchers to Turkey presented me with a golden opportunity to disappear. And so I did just that. I made it look like I'd been abducted and left them to try and figure out what could possibly have happened to me. I'm not exactly up to date on current events, but they've probably stopped looking by now.

From Turkey, I slowly made my way through Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan. I'm hoping to make it all the way to China; perhaps even as far as Japan. I've spent the last couple of months in India. At least, I _think_ it's been a couple months. I wish I could tell you what day of the week this is, but the truth is that I'm not even sure which _month_ we're in. It's spring, but that's all I know for certain. I stopped caring about date and time an eternity ago.

I don't know what I came out here to find exactly. I think I was trying to _lose_ something – or, make that _someone_ \- instead. There wasn't any point in me being in Gotham City anymore. There wasn't anything left for me there, only an old mansion and some really bad childhood memories. I figured I might as well be somewhere else in the world. Anywhere else.

I don't think there's anyone who really even cares at all where the hell I am, anyway. Well, the company's board of directors probably does – I'm sure my whereabouts make a difference in how much the company is worth. But does anyone really care about me as a _person_? I don't think so. Unless you count Alfred – maybe? For that reason, I would rather be here, where no one knows me or pays attention to me. Where no one gives a damn how much money I'm worth and TV reporters don't stalk me, hoping for a chance to ask what they think are the world's most enlightened questions, such as whether I still miss my parents, sometimes, when I'm all alone at night.

Here, I can pretend I'm someone else. Pretend that I am not – nor will I ever again be - Bruce Wayne; poor little orphaned boy who inherited his parents' billions when they were gunned down in a dark alley behind a theatre, fifteen years ago. I haven't been that boy in a very long time and there isn't a lot of him left in me anymore. Just a desire for revenge that burns anew, deep within, with every breath I take. Revenge, however, isn't for me to have - not yet. The man who murdered my parents and robbed the child I was of the future he should have been allowed to have, still sits in jail, well guarded and protected.

All the way out here, I am neither the rich man nor the poor little boy. People here do not envy or pity me at all. I'm some guy nobody knows – or has ever even heard of. They pay as much attention to me as I do to them. And that is just precisely the way I like things to be.

=:=

I'm sitting in the back of a military truck – with about fifteen other guys – on the way to cross the India-Nepal border. We've been piled up in here for hours and I'm starting to wonder if we'll cross the border in this lifetime... It shouldn't have been this long! Then again, who knows what's going on that we can't see from back here where we're hiding?

The situation is tense around these parts, as the Nepalese capital's ties with China have caused the Indian Government to block all but two trade routes into the neighboring country. Meaning that crossing the border now is probably not the safest, or the smartest, thing to do. Trouble is that I don't exactly have much choice – I've gotten myself into quite a bit of trouble and if I don't leave India soon, I may be stuck here for a very long time. I could have gone to Bhutan – I _should_ have gone to Bhutan – but Nepal sounded like a wonderful place to waste some time in, not to mention it was the closest of the two countries, so when the possibility presented itself, I grabbed it.

There's a guy sitting at the other end of the cargo area who keeps shooting glances in my direction. I noticed him right away while we were waiting around for the transport to arrive. He's a Westerner, like me. We pretty much stick out like sore thumbs, to be honest. There's a little something about him that gives me the impression that perhaps he is of Asian ancestry, but he's definitely not a local. He hasn't said more than two words since we left and I'm assuming it's because he doesn't understand enough of what these people are saying to be able to participate in the discussion they're having. Maybe he's looking to me in the hopes that I speak his language and I'll start making conversation? Maybe if he was closer, I would contemplate saying a few words to him. But in this case, I think we would both be better off keeping our mouths shut.

I can't help but wonder what he's doing here. He looks too educated, too clean, to be in a place like this. Like a college student. And a handsome one at that. The kind of guy to whom things always come easy. What possible reason would he have for being all the way out here – about to clandestinely cross the border into Nepal? Then again, I'm here too, aren't I? Maybe he's running from something? Running away from home and from responsibility? Like me.

I doubt I will ever find out how or why he's found himself here tonight. But even though we have never spoken and I don't have the slightest idea who he is, there are quite a few things I could tell you about this guy, just from looking at him.

Observing people, trying to figure out all I'm able to about them just by searching for clues, is one of my favorite activities – especially in faraway places like this. Hell, faraway is a major understatement for this place. We're in the middle of nowhere! And that makes the challenge even greater; more difficult. Not knowing much about these people – their customs, their way of life – makes it that much harder to figure out things about them. It's a much better exercise out here than at home. At home it has become too easy a game; I win every time.

The guy's in his early twenties – that, at least, should be obvious to anyone looking. There's this sort of wide-eyed wonder about him, as if he's discovering the world; seeing it for the first time. Unlike the rest of us here, he seemed to be excited about the trip – he was all smiles before we left, as if it were something great and adventurous. We, on the other hand, just want to get the hell out of India, no matter what. I wonder how long it will take before he becomes jaded and cynical...

He's American – I'm just about convinced of it. The clothes he wears, and the glasses too, are a dead giveaway. He might not be dressed in the latest fashions – it would be ridiculous of him to do so out here - but it's clear that he's not from any third world country. My reasoning might be a bit off and he could be from Europe, but there's just something about the clothes – the brand of jeans he has on, the steel-toe boots, and the flannel shirt – that scream American Midwest farmer's son to me. If I were a betting man, I would wager this is the first time he's ever been this far off daddy's farm.

He's also kind and decent, in his own weird way. Must have been a Boy Scout when he was a kid, this guy. He let every one of us get on before he finally jumped in the back of the truck. There's no way he's stupid enough not to know that if someone stops us and looks in the back, he's the first one they'll see. The first one they're likely to hurt or kill. Not to mention he's barely got enough space on the bench to sit and he's had to hold on to the side of metal, in order to be sure he won't fall off this thing. I'll bet he's pretty strong, 'cause holding on to that can't be easy by any means.

I'm lost in thought, trying to find more clues and come up with as many hypotheses as I'm able to about this guy, when the truck unexpectedly comes to a screeching halt. I hope we haven't run into the border patrol – assuming there's even such a thing out here – or worse, some sort of armed forces... People who won't be taking kindly to us crossing the border. My American "friend" was barely quick enough to grab on to the bench with his other hand and avoid being thrown clear out of here. Immediately, he started looking around as if he was searching for something, then he turned his head towards me again and now seems to be concentrating on an invisible spot, right between me and the guy sitting in front of me. I have no idea what could possibly be of interest there. Maybe he's just rattled?

Suddenly, he starts yelling – in perfect Hindi, no less – that we need to get the hell out of here. This guy is really full of surprises, isn't he? We all look at each other, confused, wondering what he knows that we don't and why we should put our trust in this guy anyway. He repeats the orders and, opening the canvas curtain that closes off the back of the truck, grabs the guy sitting across from him and all but throws him out. He jumps out himself and then picks up another guy, pulling him out as well, all the while trying to explain that there's trouble and we need to get out of there right away.

I hear gunshots and immediately get up, yelling to the guys in front that my friend is right and we need to get going. And fast! I start pushing my way out, forcing the other men to get up off their ass and get a move on. They don't seem to understand how serious this is and I'm starting to be afraid that I'm going to stay stuck in here without a chance to escape. Don't these guys care about their lives at all? I care for mine! Never mind that I hate everything about it – it doesn't for a second mean that I want to die out here tonight. I do not have a death wish. I'm not that screwed up yet, thank you very much.

There are more shots fired and I hear yelling and screaming coming from somewhere in the distance. I have somehow managed to bulldoze my way to the back of the cargo area and, as I'm about to jump off, I feel a hand grabbing the collar of my coat, and I'm suddenly lifted and thrown a few feet away from the truck. Whoa. I bet this guy's been eating more than just Wheaties to get this strong!

I land on the ground, shaken, but glad to be safe. And as I look up, I see my American friend with a hand held out to me. I grab it, get up and barely have time to mumble a thank you before he starts pushing me in the direction of some bushes a few feet to my left. Soon, we're all hiding here and he motions for us to keep still and quiet. I don't know who this guy is, but he's basically saved our lives just now and I'm more than thankful for that.

He stuck his head above the branches a couple times – checking to see what's going on, I imagine? He hasn't told us what he's seen but I suspect he hasn't actually seen much; it's too dark out. He motioned for us to keep quiet a few times, though we are not exactly making a ruckus or anything. Mind you, I'm sure if we're not careful, someone is bound to notice us hiding here. There is really no way to know who attacked the truck or why they did, but they were clearly after something – or someone – and they're going to look for it as long as it takes for them to find it.

There's been a lot of yelling and I would say about ten shots fired that I could make out, but it's all gone quiet now. The last things I heard were someone screaming in pain and what sounded like cursing, and possibly someone running away as well. It's hard to tell exactly what's been going on without having been able to see it.

There isn't a sound out there anymore. Nevertheless, we stay hidden in the bushes for a long time before deciding it's safe to leave. None of us have gone back to see whether or not the driver or his pal who was sitting in the front are still alive. It would have been the right thing to do I guess, but I think it's safe to assume they're probably dead by now.

"Where do you think we are?" I ask our self-appointed leader, in English.

He looks up at the sky; I guess so he can pinpoint our location by looking at the stars?

"Not exactly sure," he replies. "But we need to be going east." From the inflection in his voice, I see he is definitely from the US and the Midwest was also a correct guess. Two points for me.

He points to his right and starts explaining to us, in Hindi again, that this is the right direction to go in. He says he thinks it's about two in the morning, so that gives us a few hours of darkness still in order to make it across.

"How do we know when we've crossed the border?" one of the guys asks, in Hindi as well. "And why should we follow you?"

I have a good mind to tell him that considering this guy has pretty much saved all our asses, following him sounds like a very smart thing to do right now.

"We don't know," he confesses, shaking his head. "And you don't have to follow me. But that -" he holds out his arm again "- is the direction I'm going in. You're welcome to do as you please."

A few of the men huddle around each other, as if they need to discuss things over between them or something. It took them an eternity to finally get out to safety and now they're arguing the pros and cons of this, too? Well, they can take all the time they want. I know what I'm doing!

"Let's get out of here," I announce in English. And I start walking to the east.

Some of the guys have decided to go another route. Their prerogative, I guess. A small number of us are heading east. In silence. This is not the time to chitchat and the least amount of noise we make, the better – less chance of getting caught this way.

When the sun comes up, several hours later, I see a town on the horizon. I can't be absolutely certain of course, but it looks like we made it safely into Nepal.  



	3. Chapter 3

Birganj, they say, is the gateway to Nepal. It's a pretty big town - there must be close to a hundred thousand people living around here. It's a big enough place for us to get lost in. In fact, upon entering the city limits, pretty much all the guys I was traveling with immediately scattered in different directions and I was left to consider my options. I could have followed any number of them, but decided I would do better on my own.

"Do you know where you're headed?" the American asks me.

"No idea," I admit, shrugging. "I'll figure something out."

"Good luck, then, I guess."

"Thanks," I tell him, shaking the hand he has extended towards me. "You too!"

"Be careful out there," he tells me with somewhat of a concerned expression. I'm not sure how I should interpret this, but I don't bother to ask what he means, either. I thank him again before he walks off.

I bury my hands in the pockets of my jeans and start walking towards the rising sun. That's when I realize that the small wad of cash that used to be hidden in my pocket is no longer there. Neither is my passport, which is a lot more troubling. Someone could potentially use it to track me down. Hey, I'm worth a fortune... Kidnapping me would be a sure way to make a lot of cash for anyone out here. And I do mean a lot. Of course, that's assuming they had any idea what my market value might be, but with my ID in hand, they'd be able to find out quick enough.

I knew I should have burned the damned thing when I decided to disappear. It would have been the wise thing to do. It's not like I thought I would need it – I've been crossing borders illegally ever since I left Turkey, or I would have been found ages ago already. I just figured, maybe... if I ever wanted, or needed, to go back home again... Maybe. I don't plan to, really. I just thought that having that piece of ID on me might be a way out if I needed one at any point in time. I want to get lost, yes, but who knows if somewhere along the line I won't want to be found again? I guess I'll have to cross that particular bridge when I get to it – there is no way in _hell_ I'm walking into an American embassy right now. No way!

The cash flow issue is not as big a deal. I'm pretty sure that I'll be able to find something to do out here that someone would pay me for. Hopefully, even though there is a conflict and goods are not entering through India anymore, it should still be possible for me to find work someplace here. I'm sure they probably have it rough, with the trade routes being closed - most of the town's economy is likely based on the import and export of goods. I'm not picky, though, I'll take any sort of work I'm able to get. It doesn't matter to me how dirty or awful, as long as it pays enough so that I'm able to afford to feed myself and not have to sleep under the stars.

By the time noon rolls around, I have tried my luck at a few places, but the people I met there have all but kicked me right out. The cash flow issue might be harder to fix than I thought... Granted, I never expected this to be easy, but I'm starting to have a really bad feeling about it now.

I have managed to find an abandoned building that will do just fine as shelter for now – it doesn't really matter where I sleep in the end. What does matter right now, however, is the fact that I have not eaten in almost two days. I know that I need to remedy this, but I have no means to do so. No means, except one. Stealing. And as much as I don't want to go that route, I don't see that there is any other choice at this point.

So, I've walked up to this outdoor market – they have stands with all sorts of things, from clothes to toys to some really smelly, but definitely mouthwatering fish. It isn't a very big market, but it's a busy one. The place is literally crawling with people. It makes things easier in a way – the more people there are, the more merchants are likely to be distracted by paying customers and not notice that some of their products have mysteriously gone missing. I stand in the shade for a moment, hoping for a break so I can snag me some of that fish.

I guess hunger has greatly affected my concentration and my reflexes because when I do extend an arm and grab the first thing I'm able to off the display, I'm seen doing it right away. I still manage to stick the loot in the pocket of my coat and run away in an alley, but a couple of guys catch up to me in no time flat. I'm too exhausted to run, let alone fight them off but I doubt even if I give back what I took from them they're likely to let me go very easily... So I prepare to take them on, trying to summon the strength and the power I'll need for this.

The first guy literally throws himself at me. He's about twice my size and he looks angry as hell. I hit him square in the gut with as close to a reverse side kick as I am able to manage. He staggers back and falls to the ground, cursing in Nepali. The second guy comes at me from the side and I am about to stick an elbow right under his chin, when all of a sudden – and out of nowhere – a third guy shows up. I'm distracted for a second and earn myself a jab to the solar plexus from guy number two. Wind is knocked right out of my lungs and I start choking. I fall to my knees knowing I'm done for; in a second, I'll be kicked in the head for sure. But several seconds pass and then it occurs to me that my attacker seems to have changed his mind.

I feel a hand on my back and I want to turn to hit my assailant, but I just can't catch my breath.

"Are you OK?" comes a voice, speaking to me in English. I immediately recognize the American I met in the military transport last night. This is basically the second time he's come to my rescue now. I don't know where he came from or why he's shown up here anyway, but he's got the most incredible timing, I'll tell you that.

I look up and, through blurred vision, I see that we're all alone here now. I don't know where the other two guys have disappeared to, but I'm certainly glad that they're gone!

"If y- you th- thought-" I stutter. I'm trying to get words out but all I manage to do is choke some more. Screw the confession – I don't know why I wanted to tell him that I am not exactly innocent, anyway. "Thanks." I finally say, wiping my eyes before I stand up.

"When's the last time you ate?" he asks, pulling the fish I stole out of my pocket. I guess I won't need to explain myself after all; he sees right through me, doesn't he?

"Couple days," I say between coughs.

"Here," he tells me, handing me a handful of change. "You'll do better with this."

I take his money and stare at it in the palm of my hand. "Thanks," I manage to say after a moment. I'm just about completely bowled over. I want to ask why he's helping me out, but I don't get a chance. He's walked off – with my fish – in the direction of the market. I wouldn't be surprised if he's on his way to return it.

Who _is_ this guy?

=:=

I've been sitting in this sorry excuse for an inn for a few hours now. I'm not able to pronounce the name of it, let alone spell it. It doesn't exactly matter, though; I doubt I'll ever be telling anyone about this place anyway. The sun has set and there's no point in me doing anything but sit here and drink at this point.

The money I had was more than enough to buy me a plate of what the cook deemed good enough to be called dal bhat and few glasses of something they're trying to pass off as beer. I've had water that had more alcohol content than this! But as the saying goes, beggars can't be choosers and I'm thankful I'm even able to afford this at all. It's ironic, really... I'm rich beyond these people's wildest dreams, but I've had to rely on someone's charity to get food in my stomach today. If this was any other time, I would probably feel sorry for taking money from this guy – right now I'm just glad he showed up when he did.

I'm sitting here, thinking about this guy, and trying to elaborate a plan of action for tomorrow – I don't expect to see more money fall down from the sky – when I see him walk into the place. For a second, I almost wonder if he's been following me. Both times I've crossed paths with him, it seems he's saved me from some sort of evil. Unless... maybe he's jinxed and it's because he was nearby that I even got myself in trouble? Yeah, right. He probably made me steal that fish, too. Nevertheless, he's just saved my butt twice in twenty-four hours... Maybe he's my guardian angel? Nah. I don't believe in that sort of thing either.

"What are you doing here?" I mutter to myself.

Oddly enough, he looks in my direction almost immediately, as if he had heard me. Not that it would have been possible for him to do so, but the thought amuses me nonetheless.

Slowly, he glances around the place and finds a place to sit. It takes only a minute before the barkeep drops a steaming mug of what I can only imagine is tea in front of him. I guess he's been here before if they can so easily anticipate his choice of drinks. Of course, it helps that he looks a little, oh, I don't know... alien? Compared to the rest of the population, I mean. Makes him a lot easier to recognize. They exchange a few words and the guy comes back with a plate of food shortly thereafter.

It surprises me that he's in here at all. He honestly looks too nice – too decent – to be spending time in this dump. I can't say I'm even sure why he picks this place to have a meal at, being as though the food is really not all that great. Not to mention he's drinking tea so he sure as heck isn't here for the booze. He looks barely old enough to have a real drink, anyway. I bet he's probably never even had one before.

I observe him for a short while and notice he's looked in my direction a few times. The same thing he was doing when we were sitting at the back of the transport truck last night. Maybe he's trying to make sure he's really recognized me? Or perhaps he thinks that, this time, I'm more likely to go join him and chat? Maybe he's simply noticed I've been looking at him. Can I help it? If it hadn't been for him I wouldn't be sitting here to begin with. Besides, he's the most interesting looking person in this joint. And I don't mean interesting as in appealing or attractive, though he most certainly is that. He's just, oh, I don't know, attention grabbing, I guess.

Part of me wishes I knew more about him – like why he went out of his way to help me out today, among other things. But there aren't that many clues I can gather about the guy just by looking at him from afar. I'm definitely curious about him, though. And judging from the fact that he keeps looking in my direction, I would guess he is most likely curious about me, too. I just hope he hasn't recognized me... The last thing I want is someone being able to identify me.

The more I look at him, the more it occurs to me that he seems sad; preoccupied about something, I guess. Something must have happened, but what that is, I haven't the slightest idea. He looks like someone who could use a friend. Maybe that is why he's been glancing in my direction? Because he's hoping I'm as friendly a guy as he's been to me so far?

The thought almost makes me laugh. I'm about as friendly as a coiled rattlesnake. On a good day. On a bad day... hell, you really wouldn't want to know me on a bad day. I don't think I'd want to know me, either.

He looks up from his plate and directly at me. There's a wall behind my back and no one around, so there's no mistake about it: it's definitely me he's looking at. A sad smile spreads across his lips and I wonder if perhaps I should walk over there and join him.

"You doin' okay, over there, buddy?" I ask, still talking only to myself. I may not be friendly, I can still be civilized.

What am I saying? He can't possibly hear me from halfway across the room!

I frown when I realize he's just nodded at me. I'm sure it's just a coincidence. He's probably noticed that I'm staring right back at him and it's his way of letting me know he sees me doing it.

Or perhaps I only _think_ I saw him move?

He's still looking straight at me, so I lift my glass in a sort of salute and gulp down some of its contents. When I put the glass back down on the table, I see that he's still looking in my direction. I blink and look down towards my glass for a moment, running my finger on its rim, acting like I am deeply interested in the activity.

When I look back up, furtively, I realize that he hasn't taken his eyes off me yet. I wish he would stop staring. It's making me strangely uncomfortable.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you it's impolite to stare?" I let out, slightly annoyed. Why I'm still talking to myself is a mystery; even to me.

A chill runs through my spine as I realize he looked away almost immediately. What's he doing? Reading my lips? He looks up again, an embarrassed air on his face, and then picks up a novel he's brought along with him and that's been sitting on the table in front of him. I'm not able to tell what book that is – I have twenty-twenty vision, but he's sitting quite a few paces too far for me to be able to read off the cover of the novel he's holding.

I guess this means the conversation is over? Not that we were actually having a conversation, really. He's all the way over there and I am all the way here. He can't hear me anymore than I could possibly hear him if he'd been answering me.

But what if I don't want this conversation – as imaginary as it is - to be over? I'm bored, and to be perfectly honest, I'm just as lonely as he is tonight. I haven't had a conversation of more than a few simple words with another soul in days. I wouldn't mind having a chat, right about now. An actual one where I'm not just pretending that a guy sitting all the way across the room can hear me mumbling to myself.

Ah, what the hell! I grab my beer, get up from my chair, and walk over to his table. What's the worst that could happen?

"What's a nice guy like you doing in a dump like this?" I say with a crooked smile when I get to where he's sitting. This beer's a little potent after all, it seems.

"Is that supposed to be a pick up line?" he asks as he looks up from his novel. There's a hint of amusement in his eyes – at least I think that's what it is.

"If you want it to be," I answer in stride.

He raises an eyebrow and gives me a strange smile. "Sorry but that's really not going to work on me. It's one of the worst lines in the book."

"It wasn't a line. I am not-" What? Gay? Well I am not, really. At least, I don't consider myself to be. But you know how it is – guys get lonesome out here in the middle of nowhere, and sometimes, things just...happen. It doesn't mean anything. You get an itch, you have it scratched. End of story.

"Of course you aren't," he says, flashing me yet another enigmatic smile. "Neither am I."

I'm not really able to tell by the way he's acting, or the look on his face, if he's being sarcastic or if he's actually serious. Maybe he's testing me? Trying to see what my reaction is going to be?

Why would I react to him telling me he's not interested? Come to think of it, why would I react any differently if he were telling me he is? I hate that I am not able to read this guy very well; it's driving me nuts trying to figure him out!

"I was just being a smart-ass," I inform him.

And I was just kidding around, really. Not that I wouldn't consider him worthy of being picked up – it just wasn't what I had in mind at all. Of course, now that he's mentioned it, I would be lying if I said a part of me hasn't started thinking about it. I'm definitely a little drunker than I thought I was because this is really starting to sound like an interesting prospect now.

"If you say so," he says, shrugging.

"You just looked like you could use some company," I mumble as I turn to leave. "I guess I was wrong."

"Don't go." With his foot, he moves the chair in front of him just a little further away from the table. "Have a seat," he says. "You look like you could use some company, too."

He's right... I could use some company tonight. I guess I'm not the only one who can be perceptive. Slowly, I turn and take a seat. He puts down his book, then moves his mug out of the way.

"American?" I ask. I already know the answer to that, but it's the only thing my brain can come up with in ways of small talk.

"Yeah," he replies with a lopsided smile. "Kansas. How did you guess?"

I raise an eyebrow at him. "How do you think?"

His smile widens. He's probably a lot more bored than he seems to be if he finds me even remotely amusing. "I think you're a regular Sherlock Holmes."

Well, apparently this guy has got a sense of humor, too. I definitely like that about him. Not that it matters whether I like him or not, really, but it does make the prospect of having a discussion with him a lot more interesting.

"Thanks, by the way. You know, for -" I make a vague gesture with my hands. I don't exactly know how to put this into words. Saving my life a couple of times, handing me enough money so I can eat. You know, the sort of things you don't readily expect a stranger to do for you.

"Least I could do," he replies. And he sounds completely sincere, too.

I stare at him, somewhat puzzled by his statement. He really is a Boy Scout, isn't he?

"So, what are you doing all the way out here anyway, _Kansas_?"

"My name is-"

"It doesn't matter," I rush to interrupt. "Names mean nothing here. It doesn't matter what you call yourself, it's what you _do_ that defines you."

I smile, though I'm really smiling at myself for making such an awful load of crap sound so inspired and enlightened. The fact is that I have absolutely no plans to tell him my own name. I lost it when I left Izmir and that's exactly how I wanted things to be. I don't really care what the guy's name is, anyway. It won't explain what he's doing out here. Won't tell me what he's made of. His actions, however, most certainly speak for themselves.

"I guess that makes you a petty thief, then?" There's definitely a sparkle of humor in those brown eyes of his, this time there's no question about it.

"I'm not a thief," I protest mildly. "I was just...hungry. I've lost what little cash I had left and, well, it was just a last resource thing today. I'm not _like that_."

"Fair enough," he concedes. "How would you define yourself, then? "

I frown as I contemplate my answer to this question. The thing is that I don't want to be labeled or tagged. I've been looking to _undefine_ myself since I left Gotham. I've been trying to be someone else – someone I'm not. And I don't want my past catching up with me now, when I've been trying to escape it so desperately.

"I don't," I end up telling him. "Too complicated." It's mostly true. It would be complicated to explain to him who I am in a few short sentences for sure. Besides, I don't actually want him to know that much about me. There's too great a chance that I'll let something drop that might lead him to figure out who I am. Not that I'm so incredibly self-centered that I think every American over the age of twelve has heard of Bruce Wayne, but I can't really take any chances either. Besides, the walls have ears – even out here.

He lets out a chuckle and shakes his head. "Same," he says simply.

"Came out here to find yourself?" I inquire after a moment of silence and a sip of beer.

"Yeah, something like that."

There's this odd little glimmer in his eyes. It is not there for very long, but it definitely catches my attention. In fact, the way he's looking at me now, I have to wonder if maybe he wanted me to be hitting on him before? What if he simply meant that that line would not work on him – as opposed to a different one that might?

Wait, why am I even thinking about this? This guy is really messing with my head something bad.

"I guess I'm looking for a place where I fit in," he adds after a moment of reflection.

I've obviously had too much to drink – this beer seems to be very potent after all - because the next thing that pops into my head is a lewd comment. One that I refrain from making. I may be a little past the legal limit, I haven't lost all my senses yet. But it's his fault for putting these ideas in my head.

"You and I both, my friend," I finally tell him as I gulp the last of that beer.


	4. Chapter 4

We've been sitting around all night, talking about nothing and everything. We just jump from one subject to another – often when it starts hitting too close to home. Seems he's as reluctant to tell me about himself as I am to tell him who I am. I mean, we've exchanged some vague information about ourselves of course, but we're not going into details at all.

He's been doing most of the talking so far. I just sit back and listen. I'm not the world's greatest conversationalist, you realize. Besides, he's got fascinating tales to tell and I'm having a good time listening to these stories of his. He's got a real talent for recounting them. This guy would certainly make a wonderful novelist, if you ask me. Seriously. He told me about his trek through Asia – he's been backpacking for a few months – and you'd swear he's taking you along for the ride as he tells the story. He's one of these people who'll grab your attention and not let go – he's a master at it, really. He's a lot different than the person I originally had him pegged as – he's not exactly fresh off the farm, though I was right about the part where he grew up on one.

While he's been talking, I've been drinking – heavily, I should say. But then, he's been paying for my drinks, so who am I to refuse? As for the rest, I've mostly been...ogling him, I suppose would be the right term to use. I lost track of what he was saying a little while ago, in favor of hatching up schemes to get him into bed. Again, not that I had anything more than chatting in mind when I walked over here, initially. He's the one who lit that little spark in my brain. But, honestly, you'd have to be _blind_ not to find this guy interesting – in more ways than one.

Right now, my alcohol-clouded mind keeps coming to the conclusion that he's smart, strong and good looking and that he would make a wonderful catch. And a part of me would just love to reel him in. Mind you, the way I've just been sitting here in awe, I think he's the one who's doing the reeling. Just a quick little tug and I will be caught.

I don't know why it should even matter whether he's smart or has a nice personality at all. It's not the kind of thing I'm usually very picky about. Not with _guys_ , anyway. And it's not like I'm looking to forge a long-lasting friendship with him or anything. Company for an evening, sure. If he ends up showing me his bedroom, I won't complain. But I'm not exactly planning on having a relationship with him. For one thing, he's a _guy_. I'm not against having sex with him – who would? I mean, look at him, for god's sake! But sex is where I draw the line. It's not going _anywhere_ past that. Not with a guy for damn sure.

"Are you still with me?" he asks, startling me back to reality.

"Yeah, I'm sorry." And suddenly I wonder how on earth I've gone to listening to his story – knob tail geckos, was it? – to dreaming up ways of getting in his pants. "I'm a bit plastered, really."

"Kind of thought so," he says with a smile.

I stagger out of my chair and lean against the wall when the room starts spinning. Plastered is a bit of an understatement, I think. He comes over quickly and grabs me, right as my knees are going to give out from under me.

"You got a place to sleep?" he asks. "I'll help you get there. You don't quite look like you'll be able to make it on your own."

"I'll be fine," I slur.

"Sure you will." He slips an arm around my waist and gently brings my own arm around his neck. "Come on, _Sherlock_."

"Is that what you're calling me?" I chuckle. It sounds completely hilarious for some reason. Of course, it could be because I'm quite drunk. Or... maybe I'm uncomfortable, too? He's so damn close! So close that I can feel the heat from his body, and smell the musky remains of the aftershave he wears. This is so not helping to steer my thoughts away from salacious ideas. In fact, I'm certain those things I have been thinking about are written all over my face right now.

"What would you rather I call you?" he asks.

I feel his arm tightening around my waist to support me. He's got one very strong arm there, let me tell you. My heart starts racing suddenly. He's holding me so close, and he's so strong and... well, I'm seriously turned on by now.

"If you're taking me back to your place, you can call me whatever the hell you like." The words escape me faster than I realize. I should probably have kept my big mouth shut, but I guess it's too late to take it back now. Besides, it's not as though I wasn't actually thinking about seeing the inside of his bedroom, is it?

He stills and looks me in the eye. He frowns, trying to decide what to make of me, I guess. He sighs and then I realize he's started steering me towards the exit.

"I should have guessed," he tells me in an even tone. "Yeah, you can sleep at my place tonight, _Sherlock_."

Is that an invitation? Or has he simply understood that I really don't have a place to sleep? I'm past the point where I'm able to make sense of any and all information. We walk out of the inn and he half drags me into a small street, to our left. I'm having the hardest time keeping up, but I'm trying. I'm operating on autopilot – anything that requires actual conscious thought will have to wait until later. My mind is much too busy trying to control my limbs and trying to control all the thoughts that are popping up in there. Most of them revolve around finding out if the rest of him is just as powerful as his arm clearly is.

I'm pretty sure it would be smartest to keep my thoughts to myself, but most of my good sense has flown right out of the window by now anyway. "You're really cute," I blurt out to him.

He starts laughing. "Thanks, but you're really drunk."

"No I'm not," I protest, but the fact that I can barely stand up on my own two feet kind of gives me away.

"If you say so," he says softly and the sweet sound of his voice makes my head spin. "Come on, you have to help me a little bit. I'm not exactly able to carry you all the way there."

Suddenly, it occurs to me that I'm making a very bad impression and I'm actually starting to feel ashamed of myself. He's been more than nice to me so far and I just keep making drunken passes at him. Seems somehow I've started caring about what he could possibly think of me.

The cool night air must have knocked some sense into me because I realize that I couldn't live with myself if I forced him into anything. So I drop it and keep my mouth shut the rest of the way – which, considering I'm really, _very_ drunk, is a lot to ask of me.

We get to his place in silence and I all but pass out on his couch.

=:=

I woke up this morning with a monster of a headache, and I'm not exactly sure I remember everything about last night. I know I didn't make it here on my own – I'm not exactly certain where here is, beyond the fact it's my American friend's place. Which is surprising, considering the fact that I got way past drunk and I made passes at him that were so obvious and ridiculous, they should be illegal!

I get up and find that I'm all alone. No idea where _Kansas_ went, but he left a note that says "Make yourself at home." I have no earthly idea when he's going to get back - the note doesn't say. Does he expect me to hang out here until his return? Like that's going to happen, anyway...

The way the place is furnished, I can only guess that he's been living here for more than the two days we've been in Nepal. Perhaps he wasn't on his way here so much as on his way _back_ here, when I met up with him. Or maybe it's someone else's flat and he's just using it for a bit? Hard to tell.

Seriously, this guy is way too nice for his own good. For all he knows, leaving me alone here could be the worst decision he's ever made – I could clean out the place of all its valuables in less time than it would take to call the cops, if I wanted to. Not that I'm going to, of course - there's no point – but how can he know that for sure? Wasn't "petty thief" his definition of me, in fact? And even though I explained that away, how does he know that he can trust anything I've told him about myself? I could be a pathological liar, after all. He's way too nice, there's no question about it. Lucky for him, though, I'm neither a criminal, nor really a bad guy.

There's some bread on the counter, so I take some and eat it while I contemplate what I'm going to do with the rest of today. I need to find something to do – I need to find something that will earn me enough money so I can get out of here and get myself to China, like I was planning to.

I finally end up taking a shower – hot water feels like a blessing right now. It clears away most of the headache I had, as well as the smell of dead fish that was all over me. When I get out and grab my clothes, I find that everything I own wreaks of fish something awful, so I shamelessly go looking through his things for something else I can wear. He's about my size, so I'm pretty sure his things will fit me. Hey, he did say I should make myself at home, right?

About an hour and a wash cycle later, I stuff my wet but clean and no longer foul-smelling clothes into my bag, scribble a thank you at the bottom of the note he had left me, and I head out of there.

=:=

Looks like I'm as out of luck today as I was yesterday. I keep getting rejected everywhere I go. I'm not asking for much, for god's sake – I'll do anything, so long as it gets some cash in my pockets. I honestly don't care what they would have me do, I just don't want to have to steal my way out of this place. That's just asking for trouble, and spending time in a prison cell is not my idea of fun. Call me what you like, but I am _not_ a criminal and if there's an honest way of doing things, I sure as hell am going to go that way first. I may be out here to become someone I'm not, but turning to a life of crime was never in my plans.

I have spent the last hour wandering around town. I am pissed off and just basically looking for a fight. I like the thrill of it – the rush of adrenaline that comes with every punch I dodge and every hit that connects to my opponent's jaw. Ridiculous? Maybe. But when I need an outlet for all the anger that's bottled up inside, brewing and threatening to burst, pulling a few punches is a wonderful way of getting rid of the accumulated tension.

I'm annoyed at these people for being so damn xenophobic and turning me away - even though they're looking to hire someone – based solely on the fact that I'm not from around here and I'm not precisely fluent in Nepali. I'm angry because I acted like an idiot last night and made a complete fool of myself. Yeah, I actually do feel bad about it. Imagine that. And though the only accumulated tension is sexual in nature, there's quite a bit of it. I don't think kicking and punching will alleviate that sort of tension, but what does it matter?

I’ve gotten into a few good fights already. I’ve managed to keep from getting seriously injured but I sort of wish I’d gotten more than a bruised lip, though. As if I deserve some sort of punishment for being such an asshole to a perfectly nice guy last night. As for the rest, these guys totally deserved the cracked ribs, the black eyes, and even the twisted ankles they gave themselves as they ran away from me. They’re the ones who made the mistake of underestimating me. I don’t look like much, do I? But I do know how to fight – I have had years of training and practice. The best money could buy.

Once I feel I’ve had enough, I make it back to the same inn that I was at last night. It’s probably the only place I’m able to afford tonight, anyway. Besides, I’m thinking maybe if I’m lucky my "friend" might show up there tonight as well. I’m not exactly sure why I’m hoping to see him again. Maybe because he’s the only person I know around here who doesn’t want to beat the shit out of me. Maybe because listening to him tell stories about his trips is a lot more interesting than sitting here all alone.

Or maybe it’s something else altogether.

Sure enough, a few hours later, he walks in the place. Just as I thought he would.

I see him come in, out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t look up, pretending to be engrossed in the plate of food in front of me. In reality, I’m able to see every move he makes and I most definitely notice that he’s walking towards me.

"Care for some company?" he asks. If it were anyone else, I would be perfectly honest and shoo them away, telling them I normally prefer to be alone. But for him, I’m more than happy to make an exception. I wanted him to show up here, after all, didn’t I?

"Sure." I grimace and suck in a sharp breath, having bitten my lip as I spoke.

"Ouch! That's got to hurt. Did you fall off the couch and kiss the floor?" He’s got a teasing smile on his face and I can't help but laugh.

"Something like that, yeah."

I want to thank him for letting me sleep at his place – and apologize for acting so stupidly - but I don’t get the chance to.

The front door brutally flies open and a group of armed men burst into the place. Acting purely on instinct, I jump out of my chair and quickly tell my friend to follow me and hide. I may have some martial arts training, but neither of us are bullet proof!

Sadly, my move wasn’t nearly as subtle as I hoped it would be and one of the thugs leaps in my direction, aiming his machine gun at my cheek. I try to spot my companion, but I can’t see him anywhere. Of course, I’m not exactly able to turn my head to look around, either. I just hope he was quick enough to find somewhere he would be able to hide and stay safe. I would hate to think he was going to be sent back to his mother in a box. He’s obviously a good guy and doesn’t deserve such a fate – neither does his mom, I’m sure. Whereas me, on the other hand...

The gunman grabs me by the collar and yells to the others – in Persian, which strikes me immediately as being odd - that he’s got me. I guess it wasn’t simply my lack of subtlety that made me a target this time.

He proceeds to shove me to the ground and pins me there with his foot planted solidly against my spine. I feel the muzzle of his gun pressing between my shoulder blades and all of a sudden I feel a blow to the back of my head.

And everything goes dark...  



	5. Chapter 5

When I open my eyes again – actually, make that my _eye_ because it seems only one of them will open right now – the first thing I see is my friend from Kansas. He has his back to me, but I know it's him. The flannel shirt and the slightly wavy black hair can't be anyone else's but his. I blink and turn my head to look around. I'm lying on my back and there isn't a lot of lighting in here, so I'm not able to make out my surroundings very well. Wherever I am, though, at least I'm in good company.

"Where are we?" I manage to ask. My mouth is dry and words are not coming out quite as easily as I would like. I should probably ask _when_ , at some point, too; I haven't the slightest idea how long I've been out.

He turns to face me almost immediately. "My flat," he says.

"Really? I somehow thought we were being held somewhere."

My head hurts real bad. I rub the back of it lightly, wincing as my hand moves against the spot where I've been hit.

"Nope, just my flat." There's something in his smile that I'm not exactly able to make out. "And you're perfectly safe here now. They can't get to you."

I sit up, a little too fast, and the room starts spinning something crazy. "Ugh!"

"Take it easy. I think you might have a concussion."

How does he figure that? He's not a doctor. Then again, I only _think_ he's not a doctor. He hasn't told me for sure what he's supposed to be. For all I know, he could be anything – a secret agent, a rocket scientist, maybe even something really bland, like an accountant. I doubt he's any of those things, but really, what do I know?

I start coughing and he hands me the glass of water that was sitting on the end table. I nod a thank you and as I'm looking at him, it occurs to me that he doesn't seem to have a scratch anywhere on him. I'm glad he isn't hurt, but I really have to wonder how he could possibly have pulled me out of there and not have a single bruise to show for it. Unless he found a place to hide and came back for me much later, after all the commotion was over? No, that makes no sense. They were after me for some reason – they wouldn't have left me there. Someone had to have fought off my assailant and pulled me out of that bar, somehow. And though it doesn't seem logical at all, I can only guess that it was my friend, here. He's big and strong, after all - and he's on my side, isn't he?

"So, um, what the hell happened?" I finally think to ask.

"My best guess is that you probably ran into the wrong crowd," he starts to explain. "Or picked a fight with the wrong people, anyway."

"I've never met them in my life," I protest. "I've gotten into a few fights today, I'll grant you that, but not against any of these guys. I'm sure of it."

"Well, clearly they were after you for some reason. And they might have been after you for a while, too – they spoke Persian, not Nepali. Didn't you say you'd spent time in Iran?"

"Yeah. And I remember now that I'd noticed their language last night." I recall that it struck me as odd at the time, that the guy who grabbed me and threw me to the floor yelled something out to his pals in Persian. And it's striking me as odd now that my friend here could identify what language it was. He speaks Hindi just about flawlessly and I've heard him speak Nepali, too. How many languages does this guy know? For someone who's only been in Asia a few months, he sure is a quick learner.

"Any idea why they might have been after you?" he asks. His voice abruptly pulls me out of my thoughts.

"Some," I confess. It's not exactly unlikely that a group of terrorists would be out looking for me, though who they're working for or why is anybody's guess. I'm not sure by what miracle I'm even standing here in one piece tonight. These guys were probably out to skin me alive, if I had to guess. It makes me wonder if they were the same ones who stopped the truck we were on, the other night. Maybe the incidents are related?

"How much trouble are you in?" he asks after a moment of consideration. "Unless they're after you for your fortune?" he adds with a crooked smile.

"What fortune?" I snort loudly and I'm probably not as convincing as I think I am. He's joking right? I hope he is and he hasn't figured out who I am - I'd hate to think I might have to hurt him to make sure he wouldn't talk... "So, um, what happened _after_ I got kicked in the head? And how did I get here?" I ask, attempting to change the subject. I did get myself into some trouble along the way, but nothing that I care to confess to right now. He doesn't need to know. Besides, it's not that I think figuring out who these guys are or why they're after me isn't interesting, but I'm really curious to find out how I got from lying on the floor unconscious, all the way to here.

"How d'you think?" He's got an annoying little smirk on his face.

"How am I supposed to know?"

"Hey, you're the one with the detective talents. Figure it out," he says in a chuckle.

"Oh, quit being a smart-ass, will you?" I throw at him, annoyed. Guessing games are fun, but withholding information on purpose is so lame. "All I know is I got kicked in the head and blacked out. And then I woke up here, which is quite a few blocks away from where I was lying on the floor. Now, I'm pretty sure I didn't sleepwalk all the way here. So there has to be some other explanation for it, huh? And, you know, what? I'd also really like to know how it is that you haven't got a scratch on you, 'cause I have to tell you, _Kansas_ , I find that quite suspicious."

"There are other ways of settling arguments than with your fists, you know." Again with that annoying little smirk. I could so punch him...

"What? You mean you talked them out of it? What are you, a peace mediator?" It's not enough that he's sufficiently strong to pull me out of a truck and to safety, and that he's a regular Boy Scout, now he's telling me that he can talk himself out of hostage-like situations, too? Where the hell is he from? Guys like that just plain don't exist!

"Not exactly, no." He shakes his head and lets out a soft laugh.

"So you did fight them off, then?" I snap. This conversation is running around in circles and I'm really, seriously ticked off now. I'm not a very patient guy. If he doesn't start telling me what happened very soon, I'm going to get really angry...

"I told you, _Sherlock_. You'll have to figure it out on your own."

"Stop calling me that!" I protest through gritted teeth. It sounds incredibly condescending and it's annoying the hell out of me. The fact that I'm not exactly living up to the name has nothing to do with it, of course.

"Well, if you remember, you said that if I put you up, I could call you whatever I liked." He winks at me, which is rather unsettling a thing for him to do.

"No! I meant if- I mean- that- that wasn't to be taken literally!" I stammer.

I was drunk and making a pass at him at the time, for heaven's sake. Surely he can tell the difference between that and when I'm being serious, right? Hell, if I remembered any of it clearly enough, I'd probably find that I didn't mean half of what I told him the other night after my – fifth, was it? – beer. Okay, except for the fact that he's cute – even though that word is a very lame one to use on a guy. _Puppies_ are cute. This guy... ah, hell, this guy is really hot. And this is so not what I should be thinking about right now when I'm trying to be mad at him. God, my head is such a mess!

"I know," he says in a soft tone. It sounds like he's teasing, but I'm not convinced he is. I have the hardest time reading this guy. Half the time he looks like he's poking fun at me, but I'm not all that sure he is. He's just a little too complicated and mysterious for me to see through and it bugs me. It's appealing too, in a way, but I'm trying not to go back there right now.

I want to tell him he's annoying and frustrating, but the right words – the right arguments – just aren't coming to me. Even worse is that I'm realizing that the more annoyed I get with him, the more I feel my blood boiling in my veins, the more I find myself aroused. I don't know for sure what it is about him that makes me want him so badly, but right this instant, just the thought of him touching me sends my mind in a mad whirl. Unless that's just the unfortunate result of someone having decided it would be a fun idea to practice placekicks with my head?

"You should get some rest," he tells me. "It's about two in the morning and I think you've suffered quite a bit from that blow to the head."

"Yeah."

I get up from the couch, but I suddenly see stars and I stagger a couple paces to the side, crashing right into him. He catches me, effortlessly, and helps me stand straight. My breathing rate increases as I feel his hands on me – one on my side, right under my ribs, and the other, pressed against my chest. I don't know how he does that – I don't know if he realizes or even means to - but this guy somehow has the power to turn my insides to mush. And if I thought I was aroused just a couple minutes ago, I can tell you I most definitely am now. Very aroused. I'm sure it's mighty obvious by how tight these jeans have suddenly become!

"I told you to take it easy," he says. But his voice is far from reproachful; more like soft... and caring. "Are you always this stubborn?"

I want to throw a snarky remark back at him, but I'll never get a chance to do so. He turns to look me in the face just as I turn my head towards him and as we both move, my lips brush ever so slightly against his cheek. I let out a shuddering breath, eyes closed and knees almost going weak. I'm at the point where I can barely control my desires anymore. His skin is soft, and it's all I can do not to run my lips against his cheekbone.

I'm about to give in and do just that, as a matter of fact, but I stop myself from taking action at the very last moment. I don't understand what's going on, all I know is this is _not_ right. I mean, I might be okay with the idea of having sex with another guy – it's not like I've never done it before, after all – but it's never anything like this. There is never any real attraction, no interest beyond that of fulfilling a physical need. Not usually. With women, there is - always - but guys don't elicit this sort of response at all in me. With men, it is just sex. There's nothing soft or sweet or even pretty about it at all.

But this guy... All I know is that my body is responding to his touch in ways it normally doesn't. I'm attracted to him in a manner that doesn't make any sense to me. Ways that make my palms sweat, my heart race, and my breathing rate go all out of whack. Ways that aren't _normal_.

"You should let me go," I tell him, eyes still closed as I try to muster as much strength as I can to stand up on my own.

"Oh come on, you don't look like you can even stand up by yourself," he protests gently and he wraps an arm around me, tightening it on my waist just a little bit.

"I know," I start explaining, "but I can't do this. Let me go."

Come on, _Kansas_. I'm trying really hard to behave, but if you don't let me go pretty damn soon, I don't know that I'll be able to keep this up very long. If you've taken but one look down below my belt, you should have a pretty good idea how I feel about this situation. And, this is the thing... I don't want to alienate you; I really don't. And I don't mean solely because it would be kind of nice to have a place to sleep tonight. I actually happen to like you and I even think maybe we could be friends. Not that I honestly know what it's like to have friends, but I wouldn't mind a chance to find out. Trouble is that while my brain is smart enough to realize all of this, the rest of my body clearly has other intentions. So please, please, for heaven's sake, don't make it harder than it already is.

If I had any sense, I'd tell him all these things that are going through my head. But the words stay locked up in my mind and I don't explain a thing to him at all.

"Am I hurting you?" he asks with a frown. He stills for a moment and searches my face for confirmation.

"No."

"What's wrong, then?" Concern is obvious in his eyes and this only serves to confuse me even further. It's plainly evident that he cares, though for the life of me I can't figure out why he would. Except, that only makes it worse. Much worse. If he does care, then I really need to push him away because if I don't I'm going to end up hurting him one way or another and it's the last thing I want to do. I may be a little rough around the edges, it doesn't mean I'm completely insensitive.

"I just... I, um... It's because... Ah, and damn it! I'm really trying, but you're making it downright impossible for me to keep my thoughts straight. Okay?" I grab his hand and try to move it away from where it rests on my hip, but it won't budge.

"I know," he whispers softly, close to my ear, and I shiver, helplessly.

He lets his hand drop and I immediately feel sorry I ever did anything in the first place to make him remove it. I'm so mixed up! My body knows what it wants and I can read that signal loud and clear, but my head is just a mess of confused feelings. I want to speak, but all I'm able to do is open and close my mouth like an idiot.

"There's no need to fight it so hard," he says, as he turns to face me.

I feel like I've been sucker-punched. What? What's he saying? No need to- huh?

"What?" I finally manage to croak. What chance do I have of keeping it together if he's encouraging my demons?

"Don't fight it," he says simply. There's a look in his eyes that I'm not sure I understand.

"Wait- what the hell is it that you're saying?" I honestly can't believe what I'm hearing. Is this really happening? Or is this one giant hallucination I'm having, courtesy of the blow to the head I received earlier? "I thought- I- you- you said lines wouldn't work on you. And- and I thought you said you- what the hell?" I'm so perplexed I'm not making any sense at all.

" _That_ line wasn't going to work, no," he explains with a lopsided smile. "It's the worst one in the book. But you never asked if I was interested at all, you just dropped the subject."

"Huh?" I'm literally swimming in confusion now. "You mean- No. Really? You're g-" I can't even get the word out.

"If you want to call it that." He shrugs. "I just don't believe that attraction should be gender-based."

"In English, please? Can't you tell I've suffered extensive trauma to the head?" I'm sure I know what he means, I'm just buying myself some time so I'm able to make sense of what's going on because I've completely lost control of this situation. I really don't do well when someone else is holding the reins. I need to be in the driver's seat – which I'm not, right now, and I feel like we are headed straight into a huge brick wall and...it's gonna hurt big time when we smash into that!

He chuckles softly. "It just means you shouldn't fight it." His voice is low and husky, and this time the look in his eyes is unmistakable. There's as much desire in them as I'm sure there is in mine.

I hate that my head hurts and that I'm not sure whether all my thoughts are completely in order right now. And I hate that he's making this so tempting. Because it's not supposed to be that way! With a guy it's just supposed to be about sex – it's not about desire; it's not like this. If I had all my senses about me, I'd be able to tell right from wrong, but this guy, plus a blow to the head, have turned me into a confused mess. A confused and aroused mess.

"You're not kidding, are you?" My voice is barely above a whisper, and though I try to look straight at him as I ask, my one good eye won't let me focus properly at all.

Part of me literally aches for him to say that he's deadly serious. Another part of me is afraid – very afraid – of what this all means. I'm stuck in between, unsure how to react anymore. That brick wall I mentioned before? It's inches away now and there's no way to turn the car around. We're headed right for it.

For the longest time, he just stares at me. I'm rooted in place, unable to move – or speak.

Just please say something, will you? I mean, your eyes seem to want to speak for you, but I'm honestly not very good at figuring you out and unless you tell me what you're really thinking, I'd better not do anything or I'll end up making an idiot of myself.

"No," he breathes, his gaze firmly locked in with mine.

"If you are teasing, I swear to you-"

He cuts me off with a kiss, pressing his lips against mine softly. I'm startled at first, but I give in when he starts suckling lightly on my bottom lip. For a second I completely let go, even allowing myself to respond. I hadn't realized how badly I really wanted this.

Oh god, this is so _good_.

And then, a voice from all the way in the back of my head, starts screaming at me. Kissing? No, no, no! There's not supposed to be any kissing. I don't kiss _guys_!

"What are you doing?" I choke out, swiftly pushing him away.

He frowns at me as he stumbles back a step or two. I can't really tell if he's confused or hurt – or both?

"Back in Kansas, we call it kissing," he explains, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Yes, I know what it's called," I shoot back in an acid tone. "I meant, what are you doing that for?"

"What do you mean, _what for_?" He's still frowning, looking at me like I've just grown a second head. "It seemed like an appropriate response. I don't know. Do I actually need to have a reason for it?" His tone is mostly even, but I can tell he's a bit ticked off.

"Geez, you're dense!" I throw at him. "I don't know where you think this is going, but kissing me on the mouth isn't part of the deal." Granted I feel attracted to him in odd ways – I'm not denying that – but this definitely isn't going to go anywhere further than fulfilling a basic human need. Now kissing...well, kissing implies feelings. And I do _not_ have feelings for this guy.

"Deal? What deal?" he asks, still looking just as confused. "This isn't a _deal_ , this is reality."

"You know what I mean. And this most certainly doesn't involve kissing."

"No," he says, shaking his head. "No, I don't know what you mean. And why would kissing not be involved in it, anyway?"

"Because it's _intimate_ ," I tell him, frowning. Doesn't he know these things at all?

"What is it with you and all these crazy rules you keep making up?"

"What rules? There are no rules," I protest. "This isn't a rule, it's just common sense."

"Right. No rules. But no names, either. And no kissing. And I bet expressing any sort of feeling is completely out of the question. Is that it?"

My poor head is starting to spin again. For a moment, I just stand there, staring at him, mouth just about gaping open. It annoys me that he's absolutely, one hundred percent right. It annoys me because it's really hitting me now just how stupid all these rules are – because there are rules, of course. Not that I'll admit it to him... But the thing is that these rules are what's putting me in control of the situation. Yes, I have rules for just about everything. It keeps me from falling headfirst into chaos. Rules help keep things straight. I need things to be well defined and straight. I don't do anarchy. But yes, these particular rules are bordering on stupidity and while I'm not about to give him my name any time soon, I would be lying if I said I'd push him away a second time if he tried kissing me again.

"Look, I thought this is what you wanted, okay?" he tells me, breaking the silence. "If I misread you, then I'm sorry." He sighs, letting his head drop slightly, as if he is capitulating.

"You di-" I have to clear my throat so the words will come out. "You didn't."

He looks at me and raises an eyebrow. "You really have no idea what you want, do you? You just like to be in control."

"No- I- it's not-"

"Well, I'm not something you can control," he goes on saying. "When you figure out what it is that you're after, you just let me know. In the meantime, if you need a place to crash, you're more than welcome to stay. And I assure you, this place is perfectly safe, too."

He turns. In a second he's going to start walking away from me. No! I can't let him go. I don't want him to go anywhere. I grab him the arm, in one last, frantic attempt to keep him here.

"Wait."

"What?" He sounds exasperated and he fights off my grip in a swift move of his arm, but he turns around to face me nevertheless.

No doubt this is going to come right back and bite me in the ass later on, but I can't stop myself – and so I just...do it. I grab the front of his shirt in my fists and lean in, crushing my lips to his in a desperate kiss. He lets out a startled gasp and then relaxes, giving in and responding; kissing me back. That annoying little voice in my head still screams at me how wrong this is, but I ignore it completely and soon it stops complaining. It doesn't matter what the voice says and I no longer _care_ if this is supposed to be wrong – nothing that feels this right could possibly be so wrong. I don't want to think and analyze and...control. Not now. Not this. Just once, all I want to do is feel. Because this feels so damn good.

My hands slowly let go of his shirt and drop to where it disappears into his jeans. I start pulling it out, hastily, awkwardly, not being gentle about it one bit. It takes very little time before I've pulled it out completely and I slip my hands underneath, skidding my fingers against his bare skin. It's soft and warm and the feel of it sends a shiver running from the tips of my fingers all the way down my pants. I hear him groan as I stroke his back and I respond in kind the moment I feel his hands burying themselves in the back pockets of my jeans, his palms flat against my ass.

He pulls me in closer to him and I get a good sense of exactly how aroused this has made him – I'm sure he's perfectly aware that I'm just as turned on as he is. I'm a little startled by the realization that the attraction – the desire – goes both ways. For a brief moment, my eyes fly open and I find him looking straight back at me. There's a small sound of laughter coming from his throat and I close my eyes again, kissing him even harder. He responds just as fiercely.

There is a faint taste of blood in my mouth and it occurs to me that it's coming from my bruised lip. He's noticed too and he pulls back slowly, looking at me with concern.

"You're bleeding," he says simply. "I'm sorry."

I take one hand out from under his shirt and wipe my mouth unceremoniously. "Doesn't matter."

He smiles and leans in, running his tongue over my lip before pulling it between his and gently suckling it. It feels soft and sweet and it's making me nicely dizzy.

Except the dizziness doesn't subside and it seems to want to turn into nausea. I pull away quickly and slap a hand on my forehead, eyes tightly shut, as I'm caught in a rush of vertigo. I feel myself being lowered down onto the couch and a warm hand starts stroking my cheek.

"You should get some rest," he tells me.

"Stupid concussion," I mumble. The room is spinning and I'm seeing stars - if this doesn't stop very soon, I'm going to be sick.

"That's what you get for using your fists instead of your head to get your point across."

He's teasing again, I know. But it's not very amusing. For one thing, I'm sure I've never been in a fight with these guys – I'd never seen any of them before in my life! The worst thing, though, is that if I hadn't been struck in the head so hard, I'd still have been able to stand up just now. We'd still be kissing and we might...

I sigh. Stupid concussion indeed!

"Do you want to sit out here for a bit longer?" he asks.

"As opposed to what?" I'm a little bit confused... Didn't he just say I could crash here? Maybe he's changed his mind?

"To sleeping, what else?" He frowns. "You're not in any shape for anything else, I'm sure."

"Oh. Oh, I- I just- I thought you were throwing me out," I explain, a little embarrassed.

"Now why would I do _that_?"

"I don't know... My head's been banged and my thoughts are kind of messed up." I shrug and then proceed to run my hand on the back of my head, as though this proves my point. "You don't have to sit out here with me, you know. If you're tired you can go to bed. Just throw me a blanket and I'll be fine."

"Are you kidding? I'm not letting you sleep on the couch," he protests.

"Why not? I was fine here last night." I shrug. I would have been fine in an abandoned building, too. Of course, I would rather be here where there's heating, but still...

"You were drunk and passed out."

"So?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "What difference does it make if I was drunk or not? I was perfectly fine. And I will be again tonight."

"You've suffered a head injury, you obstinate fool. You'll be a lot more comfortable in a real bed tonight."

Looks like it's his Boy Scout persona I now have the pleasure of addressing. I wish the grown-up would come back; he was a lot more fun, if you ask me.

"It's your bed – if anyone should be sleeping in it, it's you."

He rolls his eyes in a very theatrical manner. "You really have to be stubborn all the time, don't you?"

"No," I say slowly. "But this is your place and your bed and I'm not taking it away from you."

"Okay, then, how about we share," he suggests. He's got this infuriating little smile on his face now. "It's a big bed."

Share? Um, how about no?

I've already crossed a line by kissing him – though that's one line I would be more than willing to cross again. And again... But sleeping in his bed – with him, no less? Then what, he'll expect me to cuddle? Yeah, that's totally not happening.

"I'm sure it's big enough, but I'll be perfectly fine out here with a blanket, thanks."

"Oh, let me guess, that's another one of your rules, isn't it?"

I give him a dirty look. I'm not even going to gratify that with an answer. It's not a rule, it's just friggin' common sense!

"You know..." He cocks his head to the side and gives me an inquisitive look. "You're really going to have to give me a copy of that rulebook of yours, so I can tell if and when I'm crossing the line. I can't read your mind and you're a tough guy to figure out."

"There's no rulebook. There's just common sense." Haven't I explained that to him already?

He shakes his head at me. "Yes, of course. Logic and common sense. Suit yourself, then. I'm going to bed." He gets up and starts walking in the direction of his bedroom. "If you change your mind, I'm more than happy to share."

"I'll keep that in mind," I tell him.

Fat chance of me changing my mind, though.


	6. Chapter 6

It takes me a short while to figure out where I am when I wake up. I'm pretty sure I didn't get drunk last night, but nevertheless, there are some gaps in my memory it seems. My head hurts and I'm just about convinced that it's because someone hit me – hard – but I don't remember the events well enough. My thoughts are jumbled and no matter how hard I try to think about last night, all I come up with are hazy memories. Something's definitely happened, though, because one of my eyes doesn't seem to want to open all the way. If how I'm feeling is any indication, then I'm sure I must look awful!

I'm not quite certain how or why I'm here, either. I know where here is, but I'm not sure how I got here or how long I've been here, for that matter. I seem to recall standing right over there at some point and _making out_ with my American friend, but the memory is a bit foggy and I'm wondering if perhaps it wasn't just a dream that I had. A strange dream, but a really good one all the same.

I groan loudly as I sit up on the couch. My head hurts a hell of a lot more than I even realized and getting up is somewhat of a chore.

"You okay?" comes my friend's voice. I turn to see him standing in the kitchen, pouring what looks like a glass of milk.

"Yeah, I think so," I tell him, rubbing the back of my head with my hand. I don't remember exactly what happened, but I'm so going to get whoever it was that struck my skull and made it ache this much.

"Did you sleep okay?" he asks. "How is your head? You want something to eat?"

"What is this?" I complain, though with a crooked smile. "The Spanish Inquisition?"

He comes around to sit with me on the couch. "Yeah," he replies, "I'm the Grand Inquisitor and you've been accused of heresy."

"You'll have to torture me if you expect to get any sort of confession out of me," I tell him. We both laugh. "So, uh... what exactly happened last night?" I ask, slowly turning more serious.

"I was afraid you might have some memory loss... You got hit in the head," he starts explaining.

I nod. I sort of remember a guy with a machine gun calling out to someone else that he had me.

"A group of guys stormed into the bar we were in," he continues. "They were after you – though I'm really not sure what they could possibly have wanted you for. I brought you back here. You were out cold for a while."

"I see."

I look at my friend, narrowing my eyes in concentration. I really want to ask about that other thing – that thing I'm not sure is real or just a dream. But I don't know whether or not I should. If it was just a dream, he's likely to think that blow to the head has made me lose my mind!

"What?" he asks. Obviously he can tell there's something I want to ask.. I might as well just do. Worst case, I can blame it on the head injury. What have I got to lose, really?

"Did we- did we, um... you know..." I gesture vaguely with my hands. I'm sure my face is probably turning crimson now. "Did we _kiss_? You and me? Last night?"

"You remember that?" he asks, a smile tugging at his lips.

"I think so." I scratch my head a little bit, trying to call up that particular memory. "It's not very clear, though. So that- that was real, right?"

"Very." His eyes turn a little darker and I feel a strange current passing between us.

"It was... nice, wasn't it?" My voice has turned hoarse and somehow it seems we have gone from sitting a reasonable distance from one another to being just a few inches apart.

"Definitely," he says in a low whisper.

I tilt my head up just a tiny little bit, looking up from his lips and into his soft, chocolate brown eyes. The side of my nose rubs lightly against his and I hear myself sigh as I lean in closer, pressing my lips to his. He runs a tentative tongue over my bottom lip once, then again in a more determined movement as though demanding entry, which I grant him only too willingly. It feels soft and warm as it slides inside my mouth, and sends something of a jolt of electricity through me. I lose myself completely in this gentle probing, his kisses intoxicating. We break apart for a moment, both of us panting. A few breaths, a quick glance, and we are joined at the lips again.

It goes on for some time; mindless, delirious kissing. And before I even realize it's happening, I'm lying on the couch with him straddling me. We are both obviously aroused. I gasp, feeling him pressing, rock hard, against me. My hands blindly find their way to his belt, fumbling about with the buckle, desperate to free him of it. He doesn't make any attempt to stop my efforts. Instead, he's kissing me even harder than before and I take it as an invitation to continue on further.

His belt undone, I slip my fingers behind the waistband of his jeans. I struggle with the button for a moment, only to realize that there are three more after that one. Stupid button-fly – couldn't he wear jeans with a zipper, like normal people? I hear something like a groan from him, but it's muffled by the sounds of my heart pounding in my ears. I guess his choice of garments is as annoying to him as it is to me... My fingers keep brushing against his erection as they move down from button to button, but I'm not able to get to him properly until I'm done and he's still trapped, full and firm, in his briefs.

That last button is giving me a hard time and I just can't get it undone at all. Screw that, I think to myself and I just shove my hand into his underwear. He tilts his head back and lets out a guttural _'ah!'_ sound as I grab hold of his shaft, eagerly pulling it out of his clothes. It throbs in my hand when I stroke him, exciting both of us even further. He looks back down towards me, eyes wide, pupils dilated. He's about to kiss me again, but I have other plans.

"Move a bit," I say, my voice just a hoarse whisper. He doesn't move at all, so I attempt to explain what I'm thinking. "Just back up some, so I can get out from under you."

He obliges, though he seems confused as to what I want. I slide out from where I was lying and get down on the floor, kneeling in front of the couch. In a quick motion, I grab the top of his jeans and pull them as far down as I'm able, then get him to settle into a sitting position.

I'd sort of noticed he was well endowed when I held him tightly in my hand, but my eyes grow wide now that I've got a visual. _Whoa._ My mouth hovers over the tip of his sex for just a moment before I finally take him in, almost all the way down my throat. His fists grip the couch cushions when I pull away, running my tongue along his entire length.

"Oh, god," he moans loudly.

"That's it," I tell him, backing away far enough to be able to speak audibly. "Scream for me. _Scream!_ I know you like it. Let me hear it."

"Don't stop," he croaks, looking at me, eyes wide.

He lets out an exclamation of relief the moment I take him in again. _"Ohgodpleasedon'tstop!"_

I hear several more loud moans and gasps as I stroke and lick, biting him lightly a couple times along the way. Every new strangled cry of pleasure encourages me to go on.

I look up quickly to see that his head is tilted on the back of the couch, and his hands keep grasping blindly at the cushions.

"Go on, come," I mumble.

As if on cue, there is a resounding, "Yes!" He thrusts his hips sharply, hands gripping my shoulders as if to make sure I'm not going anywhere. He comes in several short spurts, moaning loudly as he does.

I let him go when it looks like he's done and I swallow the mouthful of liquid he's graced me with. I lick my lips and see him giving me a look of addled appreciation, eyes dancing in their sockets. I reply with a short guffaw of amusement as I get up off the floor.

My head starts spinning – I got up too quickly, I suppose? – and I crash down on the couch next to him with a grunt. Hands fly to my skull, as if that's going to help steady it – or the room that's whirling around me.

"Shit!" I grumble between clenched teeth, eyes closed tightly.

I'm aware that there's some sort of movement next to me, but I don't look. I feel a hand running up and down my back gently. It's oddly comforting to know there's someone right there who genuinely seems to care.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"What for? It ain't your fault." I shoot back with an annoyed sigh. It's my own fault and I'm paying the price. Stupid fucks with their machine guns. I wish I knew who they were so I could kick them all to kingdom come. Of course that implies being able to stand up and I'm not sure I'm able to do that now – my head is spinning like a stupid Tilt-a-whirl.

"Yeah, but I'm sorry anyway." His voice is soft and kind, and it makes me realize I was probably a little brusque answering him just now.

"It's okay. I'm the one who should be sorry," I tell him, more calmly this time. "I'm annoyed at myself - not you."

"I know." He threads his fingers through my hair and leans in to kiss my hand, just where it lies, over my left temple. I like that he's so sweet and caring, but this is bordering on uncomfortable, now. We're not girlfriends - we're guys, for God's sake.

I clear my throat and look up at him, squinting as the sunlight flooding the room hits my eyes. "Got any aspirin? My head feels like it's going to crack open."

"Yeah. Just a sec."

He gets up, then returns almost too quickly, holding a couple of pills in the palm of one hand and a glass of water in the other. I take both, chasing the medication with a swift gulp of liquid.

"Thanks." I look at him, frowning a little. "Didn't mean to cut that short. Sorry."

"There's no need for you to apologize for anything," he says. "Get some rest."

"No time to rest," I explain, shaking my head. "I need to find some work – get some cash in my pockets, so I can get moving again. Get myself to China, like I planned."

His expression changes to one of surprise.

"What?" I ask automatically. Didn't he expect me to want to leave at some point? I'm certainly not going to stick around here like a freeloader – I would sooner have Alfred wire cash over here than live off of this guy, no matter how nice he is. And this, even though the last thing in the world I want now is for anyone to know where the hell I'm hiding. There is absolutely no way I'm letting anyone support me!

"Nothing."

Sure. I'm not going to argue with him, but I don't believe him at all. There is _something_ – I'm just not exactly sure I want to probe any further to find out what it is. He moves over to the counter and I see him writing something down in his notebook. He rips the page out and folds it in two, then comes back and hands it to me.

"Here," he says. "If you go see this guy, he can set you up with some work."

"Thanks."

"Sure." He shrugs. "Might not be the most glamorous thing in the world, but he's mentioned a couple times that he was looking for help. I'll let him know I found someone for him."

"Doesn't matter what they have me do. I'll take anything I can possibly get. Thanks for the help."

"Sure thing. I should probably go now. I have an appointment soon." He goes back and grabs his notepad, then places a pencil behind his ear before he heads off towards the door. "I was serious last night, you know. You can crash here as long as you need to. I'm not planning on throwing you out."

He steps outside, but I call out to him before he closes the door again. "Hey, _Kansas_? Thanks."

"Any time, _Sherlock_."

I hate that name. I'm sure he is perfectly aware of it and he's making a point of using it exactly for that reason.

"Just try and keep yourself out of trouble, will 'ya," he teases as he shuts the door behind him, not waiting for me to respond. I'm sure he probably knows the sort of answer he was likely to get to a statement like that!

I lie down for a moment while I wait for the pain meds to kick in. Eyes closed, I can't help but imagine what might have happened just now... if only I hadn't gotten myself kicked in the head last night.

Damn it!


	7. Chapter 7

I don't know how long I spent lying on his couch. Too long, probably. I've counted all the cracks on his ceiling – twice.

I've been forcing my brain to give up the things it's withholding from me, with some degree of success. I remember the guy who kicked me in the head. I can see his face in my mind now when I close my eyes. And I can hear his voice, too. It doesn't tell me who he is or what he wants, but at least I'd be able to make a good enough description of the man if I needed to give one. Not that I'm going to go to the authorities, but I'm not going to let this go either. It doesn't matter that I escaped them – I want to know who they are and what the hell they wanted with me.

And I _am_ going to find out.

In fact, now sounds like a great time to start doing just that. I really need to get my butt in gear anyway - I've got a man to see about a job. I get something to eat out of the fridge and leave my friend's flat very soon after that.

The very first place I go to, after I leave, is that inn we were at last night. I need to figure out who these guys were and why they're after me. But when I walk in, the owner starts yelling at me to get out of his bar. He says I'm not worth the trouble and that I should find myself lucky he's not pressing charges or asking for compensation for the damages. I stare at him, confused. What damages? And why would he press charges against me? I'm the victim! There's something really fishy about all of this. He starts pushing me out, complaining that he'll definitely call the authorities if he ever sees either my American friend or myself in there again. I push him back just slightly, and exit the place without asking questions.

I'll have to ask _Kansas_ about all of this. He knows what's happened there last night. He's going to have to explain it to me.

I check the piece of paper he gave me earlier this morning. It's got a name and an address on it. I haven't the faintest idea where to find the place, so I stop someone on the street and ask, but I'm having a tough time understanding what the man is telling me. I can understand a bit of Nepali, but definitely not enough to have a real conversation with anyone. Left, then right – this I got. But, then he uses a few words that I've never heard before and even though I ask him to explain, he just repeats the same thing. I thank him, though I'm a bit frustrated, and I walk on.

When I get to the next street, I make a left, then a right at the next street after that. Sure enough, it's not the right street name and I know if I go on turning left and right, I'm going to get myself completely lost in no time flat. All the streets look the same – dark and dirty. The buildings on either side of them are mostly identical. And it looks like these people don't see any need for street signs, so figuring out where you are isn't exactly simple. I look around, but there's no one, so I go back from where I came, until I manage to find someone who can show me where that damned place is.

After some time – longer than this should have taken me – I finally manage to find the place I'm supposed to go to. It's a large, grungy looking building – though I pretty much expected that it would be. It's a cigarette factory, of all things. Not that it really matters, in the grand scheme of things.

I go in and ask to see the man whose name my friend gave me. A burly, middle-aged man shows up to greet me a few minutes later. He wears tick glasses and barely has any hair left on his head. He's all smiles and I can readily see why he might be friends with _Kansas_.

"Oh, yes! Hello, hello! I expect you." He has a very thick accent, but I'm glad to see he speaks at least some English. That should make things a lot easier.

"Morning," I reply, shaking the hand he's extended towards me. He's got a firm, determined grip.

"Mr. Holmes, I think? Correct?"

I fight an urge to roll my eyes. "Yeah, that would be me."

Holmes. Figures this is the name _Kansas_ would have given him! If I'm lucky, the guy has never read Conan-Doyle; else this is going to turn into a very nasty, very un-amusing little joke pretty fast.

He looks me up and down for a second and then a smile appears on his face and a spark lights up his eyes. I hope this means the interview's over and I passed the test?

"Good, good! Strong!" He exclaims. I'm surprised he got that just from looking at me for a second and a half, but I'm not going to argue over it with him. "Follow, okay? I show what we need."

"Perfect. Thank you." I follow him to the back of the factory while he starts explaining what it is that he expects me to do, how long he will need me for and how much he is paying me.

=:=

For the next couple of days, my life consists of piling up boxes of cigarettes from very early in the morning until well after the sun comes down, and I'm still crashing at my friend's place. Haven't seen him for more than a few minutes, though. He was there when I came back the first night, but I was too exhausted to even hold a conversation and I'm afraid I dozed off while he was talking. I haven't seen him since then.

In a way, I'm thankful for the fact that we haven't seen much of each other. I don't want him to start seeing this as something it's not. I honestly don't want to give him the wrong impression – or worse, false hopes. Because this really isn't anything. At all.

This is precisely why I have a rule against kissing. Because once you start with that, someone undoubtedly gets ideas and... well, I don't see how there's anything to get any ideas about.

Mind you, the kissing was nice. Very nice. Better than nice. Wasn't supposed to ever happen, of course, but I'd be lying if I said I regretted a single moment of it. However, it doesn't carry any profound meaning whatsoever. It was just a momentary lapse of reason – or three - that's all.

So while I don't regret any of that, I'm also glad that things didn't go too far, that one morning, on the couch, when... you know. Otherwise, I'm afraid he might have gotten it in his head that this meant something more and I... I don't think I'd be able to deal with that at all. Too many implications, too many problems.

I don't think I could cope with having to tell a guy that we are just not meant to be together. Because we're not. I'm definitely not planning any sort of future with a guy! And I just don't see myself having to explain that to him. Such a scene sounds completely idiotic in my head – I can only imagine how much worse it would be to actually have to go through it in reality. When my seventh grade teacher said I would break hearts someday, I'm sure this is not what she had in mind at all.

I'm going to have to find someplace else to crash. It's for the best.

=:=

I get out of the factory on payday with a handful of shiny new rupees and a strong desire to down a couple of beers. Piling up boxes of cigarettes all day will do that to a guy. So I head off in the direction of the only other watering hole that I know how to find. I wouldn't really want to go back to the first one - the inn. Never mind that I'm persona non grata there anyhow.

For a while, I have the strangest feeling that I'm being followed. I turn around just in time to see someone hide behind a car. What the hell is this? I haven't seen the person's face – I'm fairly sure it was a man, though. Maybe he's doing recon for the other guys who were after me? Maybe he's one of them... Or maybe I'm being paranoid.

I look behind myself a few times after that as I keep on walking, but I no longer see anyone who seems to be specifically following me.

I run into _Kansas_ as I turn the next street corner. His sudden appearance, mixed with the stress that's been pumping though my veins the last few minutes, causes me to gasp in near shock.

"You okay?" he asks, frowning at me.

"Me? Of course," I tell him, quickly regaining my senses. "Hey, how about a beer or two? I owe you a few, I believe."

"No thanks. I don't drink."

"Okay, then, tea and dinner. Whatever you like." I smile encouragingly. I'm going to have a drink whether he does or not, but I figure I owe him for quite a bit, so I may as well start repaying him now.

"So, what, are you asking me out?" he says, a silly grin on his face.

"In your dreams, _Kansas_."

"Too bad," he teases, snapping his fingers. "I had something _really_ nice planned for after dinner."

"Smart-ass!" I meant to sound annoyed, but I'm laughing a little too much for it to be convincing. "So? You coming or what?"

"What's the catch?" He frowns at me suspiciously.

We start walking back towards the more commercial part of town. We'd have to go through there to go back to his place no matter what and I'm kind of planning on sleeping there again. It's too late tonight for me to start looking for somewhere else to stay. His couch will do just fine.

"Why would there be a catch?"

"I don't know. Only, the last time we were in bar together, you were... Oh, wait, I get it!" He chuckles. "You got knocked out by a guy with a machine gun, last time. You're not looking for _company_ , it's a _bodyguard_ you want!"

"You know, you're a lot better at reading lips than you are at reading minds!" I tell him, still laughing a little bit. He's ridiculously far off the mark. Of course, I'm pretty sure he was just teasing, but nevertheless.

"Reading lips? What makes you think I can do that?" He looks genuinely puzzled.

That's odd. I could have sworn that's how he knew what I was saying, the other night. But, if he wasn't reading lips, how is it that he always reacted to whatever I was saying – and right on cue, to boot! I'm the one who's puzzled, now...

"The other night, at the inn," I start explaining. "You were sitting all the way across the room... I don't know, it just looked like you knew I was talking to you, and that you understood what I was saying. I mean, your actions led me to believe-"

"Oh, that!" he exclaims. It's as if a light bulb went off in his head or something, the way he's acting now. "Yeah, I was reading your lips. I simply hadn't realized that you had noticed."

How would I not have noticed, I wonder. We were having a conversation, each of us sitting on opposite ends of the room. Of course I noticed. I got plastered after that – not before. I'm about to protest, but I realize we're standing just outside that place I was planning on going to, so I drop the subject momentarily. I'm sure I'll get other chances to find out what this is all about.

=:=

We go back to his place later on. I tried again tonight, but I haven't managed to get any useful information from him that would lead me to find out who my assailant was, the other night. He's still being very vague – on purpose, too - and it's irritating me to death. It really bugs me that he's hiding something from me. I just can't figure out what that is, or why he would do such a thing.

He's not protecting them is he? Nah. He's too good a guy for that. It's got to be something else. But what?

"Thanks for letting me sleep here this week," I tell him when we get inside.

"Sure." He smiles, as though this is the most natural thing in the world.

"I'll clear out tomorrow, don't worry."

"Tomorrow?" He sounds as surprised about me wanting to leave as he had that time I said I was planning on going to China soon. I guess he didn't think I was serious about it.

"I should probably have done that this evening, really," I explain, "but I'm kind of glad we had a few drinks instead."

"I don't suppose it would serve any purpose for me to tell you that you can stay here as long as you like?" he asks.

An alarm goes off in my head – he seems to want to keep me here very badly. This isn't good...

"Why does it matter so much to you? I mean, for all you know, there could be a bunch of guys on the other side of your door now, just waiting for the right moment to break it down and beat the crap out of me."

"I don't think that's very likely to happen," he reasons. "Besides, I told you. This place is quite safe."

Yeah, no kidding. Of course it's safe here, especially with that big mass of muscles sleeping in the next room. But still... "There are other places just as safe, I'm sure. Why should I stay here?"

"Why not? No one's forcing you to leave."

"No. But seems to me you're pretty desperate to keep me here."

"I just like the company. It's lonely out here all alone," he says, throwing in an unconvincing shrug.

"Company, my butt!" I know he's not telling me the truth at all. He can't seriously think that I'm that gullible. "You haven't even been here at all the last two days. Look, you might call me Sherlock just to annoy me, but there are times when I can live up to the name, you know. I'm not as sharp as he is for sure, but I do see clearly enough. You're not lonely. You have plenty of friends here. I've seen them." This is not someone who's all alone in the world and miserable because he doesn't have any friends.

"Maybe that's not what I meant," he remarks bitterly.

"Maybe that's exactly why I should leave."

"Fine, fine. Just go then, see if I care." His tone is harsh and he's standing with his arms crossed in front of his chest. He's clearly taking it pretty hard for someone who insists he doesn't care.

"I know you do," I tell him, trying to sound as gentle as I can, though that's not exactly something I excel at. "But I... Look, I'm sorry, but... I mean, you're a nice guy, really, but I just don't-" Good god! I knew this would sound so much worse out loud than it did in my head! It's absolutely pathetic!

"It's okay." He sighs. "I get it, you don't have to explain. It was amusing to pick me up in a bar and-"

"I never picked you up. In fact, if anyone picked up anyone else, I would say it was you who picked me up – and right off the floor, no less." I'm hoping to defuse the situation with just a tiny bit of banter. Maybe. I'm not exactly holding my breath, though.

"Wise-ass," he shoots at me, eyes narrow.

"Thank you, I'll take that as a compliment. And I'll be out of here tomorrow."

"I suppose you'll be crashing on the couch?"

"Obviously." I stare at him for a second. Does he think that because I-- that the fact I had his cock down my throat for a few minutes the other day, means we should be sharing his supposedly big bed, now? Uh. No. What planet is this guy from?

"Fine. Goodnight," he says bitterly, before he disappears into his bedroom.

"'night!" I reply, rolling my eyes at his back.

I'm a bit ticked off by the fact that things have gotten so out of control. This was not supposed to turn into anything. It was never supposed to be like this! I need to clear out of here first thing in the morning. No doubt about it.

I lost control of this situation the second I let him kiss me. No, wait, that's not it. I lost control when I started kissing him back.

That was such a stupid idea. I'm such an idiot!

I feel sorry for him. I really do. I never meant for things to be this way; not for a second. This is just one really huge misunderstanding and I'm sorry for that. I wish things were different – he's a nice guy and it does bug me that I'm hurting him somehow. Mind you, he's hurting himself, really. I never asked him to feel anything for me. I never offered or promised anything. I never said I was okay with this being anything but a little physical fun – if it happened at all. And at first, it really wasn't going to.

Damn it!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _The shower-sex scene is dedicated to Jessi, without whom it would have been left on the cutting-room floor._

I wake up to the sounds of the floor creaking. It's morning, I can tell by the sunlight pouring in the window, but I'm not sure what time it is exactly.

I look around to see my friend walking towards his kitchen. All he's wearing is a pair of boxers and I am taken a little by surprise as I get a good look at his body. I'd seen parts of it – I've been more than a little impressed by certain parts of it, really – and I've gotten a feel of the rest of him, but I would never have imagined he was hiding such a great body under his clothes. No wonder he was able to grab me and throw me out of the back of the truck the other night – he really _is_ just a big mass of muscles. One really amazing-looking mass of muscles.

I need a few minutes of concentrating on something else – something completely un-sexy, like board of directors meetings and... broccoli – before I can get up from the couch and still manage to salvage what little bit of dignity I have left.

"Still planning on leaving?" he asks as I walk into the kitchen.

Nice way to start the day... I refrain from snapping back at him, though my first instinct would definitely have been to do so.

"Yeah," is all I end up saying. And I'm trying to sound convinced, but it's not really working. Not that I'm seriously having second thoughts about it, only I'm not awake enough to be the least bit convinced or enthused about anything. Too early in the morning for stuff like that.

"Right and I suppose you'll be back in a couple days?" His tone is bitter, but he sounds rather sure of himself.

"No. I won't be back."

"You keep saying that," he counters, "but you always end up back here, don't you."

"Not this time," I inform him. "I'll be leaving in a few minutes and this time, I really won't be back."

He frowns at me, as if he doesn't believe that I'm serious, though I think perhaps it's starting to register with him that, this time, I'm not kidding around.

"Why?" he asks. If I didn't know any better, I would say he looks almost crestfallen. I mean, obviously he isn't happy, but I can only guess he's trying to make it look worse – just on the off chance that it could make me change my mind.

Right?

"You know why. Because it's not safe here anymore," I tell him. "Someone's after me. I don't know who and I don't know why, but the fact remains that there is someone out there who's after me and they've just about caught me a couple of times, too. You helped me get out of it once, but-"

"See, this is why you should stay here," he cuts in. "I can't be around to help if I don't know where to find you."

"I can't expect you to always be there, or even show up in the nick of time to save my butt every time I find myself in a little bit of trouble." I frown at him. I appreciate the fact that he's gotten me out of a bind, but I can neither count on that nor take it for granted. It would be stupid of me to do so. "Besides, what sort of a friend would I be if I put you in danger constantly because I'm in danger myself? No... I couldn't do that. Someone's been following me, I told you that already. And it's likely they already know I'm staying here with you. I've probably put you in danger just by hanging around you."

"You're not putting me in any danger," he protests. "I can take care of myself. I'm perfectly capable of it. And you're a lot safer here than you think, too."

"Look, I'm not a damsel in distress you know," I explain, rolling my eyes at him. "I'm able to take care of myself just as well as you can take care of yourself. I don't need anyone to do that for me, either. But there's someone out there who's trying to get me for some reason – probably a group of someone, even. I can't take the chance of staying here and having them catch me. They've come too close already and next time, they're not going to let me go as easily – I just know it. I can feel it."

"Well, then you need to find out who it is and why."

"I'm trying!" I protest. "Seriously, _Kansas_ , I think you might be overestimating my detective skills. I'm not exactly fit to live on Baker Street just yet. Sure, I can tell things about people just by looking at them, but that's about as far as it goes. Without any resources to gather information, there's not that much that I can figure out on my own. If I had the resources, I could-"

"Maybe _I_ have them," he interrupts. "Maybe _I_ can find out things that you aren't able to on your own. Maybe _I_ have access to resources that you don't have."

"Right," I say, dubiously. What possible resources could he have? "Like what? What sort of resources does a guy like you have access to?"

"A network of informants, for instance," he explains, looking pleased with himself.

"Informants?" Couldn't he have told me this before?

"Among other things. Look, I've done freelance work for a few newspapers. I know people. And they know other people. I can gather information pretty quickly when I need to."

"It's no use, anymore." I shake my head. It would have been a good idea a few days ago, if he'd had the good sense to tell me about this. Before I noticed I was being followed. It's too late now, they've gotten too close and they're not going to miss next time. They might catch me in broad daylight. They probably know exactly where I am right this second, even. "By the time you're even able to find anything out, it would be too late. They're on to me and they're very, very close, too. I need to make myself scarce and I need to do that now, when there's still a possibility that I'll make it out of this town alive."

"Then send them on a wild goose chase," he suggests. "Plant a false track for them to follow, and while they're off looking for you elsewhere, you could come back here."

"Why do you want to keep me here so badly?" I ask. I don't know why it hadn't occurred to me that he's not trying to find a way to help me escape from these guys, so much as trying to find a way so that I'll stay here.

"Haven't we gone over this before?" he asks.

I know it's my fault and I led him on more than I should have allowed myself to, but he's the one who kissed me that night. I remember it clearly, now. Okay, okay, I kissed him right back. And then, when it happened again, he was all over me and... well, I'm sorry if my body responded to that and I sort of lost my mind a little bit.

I gave him head. So what? Who in their right minds draws any conclusions from that? It was just a blowjob. It doesn't come attached with feelings and it doesn't mean anything beyond that. At least, not in my book.

Okay, so perhaps I was a little bit too desperate for some form of human contact, and I wasn't able to control myself as well as I probably should have. And I should have been clearer about everything - I know I should. I'm not really sure how he could have gotten a wrong message from me, though. Problem is, I'm just about convinced that he has some sort of feelings for me now. He wouldn't act this way otherwise – he wouldn't get all worked up over the fact that I'm about to go away. He wouldn't act as though I need to stay here with him.

Granted, I may have a few feelings of my own – I mean, I do keep coming back here, don't I? I haven't made any _real_ efforts to leave. In fact, going out for a couple of beers with him last night was just an excuse not to stop at an inn and get a room elsewhere. I'm not even making any attempts to hide that fact. But what am I really looking for, here, besides a chance to get into his pants?

So I have the hots for him. Sue me. It's not my fault he has that sort of effect on me. I'm definitely not made of stone... But that's as deep as it goes. I'm not going to fall for a guy. No matter how interesting or amazing-looking he can be.

I'm attracted to the guy - of course I am. So what? And sure, he has a way of messing with my head when he is not busy melting my insides. And yeah, okay, kissing was great and just thinking about that makes my groin start to twitch. But the fact that I'm attracted to him, or even that right this moment I'm feeling a very strong urge to strip him of his boxers and bury myself deep inside him, is all just a physical thing. There are no feelings associated with any of that.

I mean, he's nice – charming, even – and he's quick witted and intelligent. Unlike most guys I've been with who are just strong and stupid. Not that it makes any difference, really. I had sex with them, their ability to please me was all that mattered, it made no difference whether or not they could hold a conversation afterward. Him, though... him I'd listen to all evening. It helps that he has a pleasant voice, too. A soft, caring tone, a sweet smile... those deep brown eyes. He's someone you look forward to spending time with. But that's just extra, really – it's not required, it just makes it more interesting. As opposed to just mindless sex.

And, sure, I let him get away with things I never let guys do – kissing for one. I also let him tease me when I would probably punch anyone else just for trying. Hell, I'd let him fuck my brains out if it pleased him to do so. But none of that means I'm in love with the guy. I like him, I enjoy being with him, and I am wildly infatuated with him. Those aren't feelings.

I don't understand why it's so hard for him to see me go. For one thing, we just met and for another, I never promised him anything. I can't stay here forever. I don't think I would stay that much longer even if I wasn't in danger. This is not what I was planning on doing. I was on my way to China. I still am on my way to China. Staying here – staying with him, it's not my life. It was never going to be. I'm not staying around and spending the remainder of my days playing house with a guy. A guy whose name I do not even know because I won't give him mine. And I'm most definitely not spending the rest of my natural life in a cigarette factory, stacking up boxes, loading and unloading delivery trucks. It's not that I think I'm too good for it – and it doesn't mean that I want my old life back, the one that comes complete with a huge fortune – only that I don't want to be stuck doing that for very long, no matter what.

"Look, I don't know how or why you got the wrong idea. It's my fault, obviously and- I mean..." I so completely hate to have this sort of conversation with him. "I'm really sorry. This is not... I can't give you what you seem to be expecting from me. I'm sorry, I honestly, truly am. This just can't work. Not like this."

"I see," he says simply. His tone is as acidic as I have ever heard it. "You were just fooling around, weren't you? Just having a good time, with no strings attached. You never really cared about anyone but yourself – you probably wouldn't know how to, would you?"

"Now wait just one damn minute!" I exclaim. He isn't going to accuse me of this. I'm not heartless, I'm just... not at the same place he is, that's all. "I'm sorry if I led you to believe that things were going to be a certain way. I thought you'd understood right away that this was not... this is not a relationship, this is just... I dunno, two lonely guys. It doesn't mean that I'm going to spend the rest of my life here."

"I'm not asking you for the rest of your life," he counters.

"Well, gee, I hope not!" I retort with a near snort of incredulity. "I wouldn't promise that to anyone unless I was getting ready to take vows. Look, I'm sorry. I really, truly am. I should have made things clearer and I didn't. I'm sorry."

"Of course you are," he says before getting up. "I hope your stupid rulebook keeps you warm at night."

"There is no rulebook-"

"Just common sense," he finishes before I have a chance to. "I know. You just need to be in control. Well this isn't being in control of your feelings, this is pretending you don't have any. But you do. And you should learn to deal with them instead of squashing them and pushing them down as far as you possibly can. You need to accept them – they're not all bad, you know. They're powerful, sure, but that's just who you are. You aren't subdued or nonchalant – you're passionate and impulsive, but you've built up a fortress to keep who you are as well guarded as you can. And you're not letting anyone in. You know, if you ventured out of that ivory tower you've locked yourself into, you might find there are some things that can be quite enjoyable."

I watch him go back to his bedroom and close the door behind him. And for a good few minutes, I feel like the world's biggest jerk.

=:=

As I step into the shower, searing hot water starts running down my back but I don't really feel it. I don't care how hot it is; I don't care if it burns. I don't give a damn at all.

I hate that he had a point just before. It kills me that no matter how badly I try to be guarded, he can see right through me. And not only that, he knows exactly what to say to have an effect. The thing that's going to hit square in the middle of the target and... sting like hell.

I hate that he's so right.

No, I don't relate to people very well and I don't let them get anywhere near enough to know me. For one thing, I'm not sure why they'd want to get close to me anyway. I'm not a friendly guy. I'm not even a nice guy. There really isn't all that much that's likeable about me, let alone lovable. Besides, I don't know how to get close to people anyway. I've never really been able to make friends. And I don't know that I've ever really felt anything greater than a certain degree of affection for anyone. The only people I ever really loved were taken away from me. What's the point in me finding how to love again, when people leave – or die? When you're likely to get your heart trampled on time and time again? Why would anyone in their right mind want to go through anything like that more than once? I just don't get it.

And yes, I need to be in control. If I'm not, if I let emotions rise up too close to the surface, then I'm going to turn into a monster. I know I am. Some of these things I'm feeling are so strong - so violent, even - that if I gave in to them, they would destroy who I am. Overpower me. And I cannot let that happen. I can't fall apart. I'm afraid of who I would become if I lost control – really lost control. And there are things I'm just plain afraid of thinking or feeling anyway.

There is a sea of these emotions, just below the surface. I don't want to ever let them out. They're frightening. Hell, they're terrifying. The anger and the need for revenge, especially. If I'm not careful, I could turn into someone awful. Someone even worse than the man who murdered my parents. I know that. That's why I stay in control. I don't let emotions get the best of me. Even when – especially when – the need for justice is so great it's the only thing I feel.

But no matter how powerful these things are – anger, hatred, fear, rage - I know them, I understand them, and I can control them. The rest... is alien to me. Things I can't easily recognize, categorize, put out of my mind.

I've been standing here for what, ten minutes? Under a jet of almost boiling water, hating him for being right and berating myself for so many things that I've lost count.

I was selfish – need is a very selfish thing. And I wanted him – I still want him, physically, in a way that is so incredibly strong, I'm not sure how to stop it. When you need something and you have to have it so badly it hurts, then I guess sometimes you end up forgetting the fact that there may be other people's feelings to consider. Looks like perhaps I'm just too busy trying to stay in control to notice little things like that.

If only he hadn't gotten himself emotionally involved in something that was doomed right from the start. I hate that things have turned out like this.

I should have gone as soon as I realized... I don't know why I didn't. I should have left, I shouldn't have come back. I should have known better in the first place. But I stopped listening to my better judgment at some point and I've done things that I'm not even sure I understand anymore.

I broke all my damn rules. All, except one – the most important one. He might have gotten a lot from me, he's not getting my name.

For a long time still, I just stand there, forearms crossed against the tile wall in front of me, my forehead resting on them. I must be really messed up because I've been talking to myself as I'm starting – just barely starting – to come to certain realizations.

It really shouldn't annoy me so much that there's a guy on the other side of the door whose feelings are being crushed. But the fact is that as much as I hate him for his ability to see right through me, I hate myself even more for hurting him.

"Don't say that," I hear him saying all of a sudden. What the hell's he doing here? And what was I saying exactly that he's protesting against? I've been calling myself names for some minutes now...

"Why are you here?" I ask him, wearily. I don't even bother to turn and look.

"You're using all my hot water," he says.

"Sorry," I say, flatly. I don't know how long I've been here and I don't much care. I'll get out when I'm good and ready.

"Don't be. I'm not."

Surprised, I open my eyes and turn to look towards the side of the shower, where I expected him to be. But I don't see him there. Immediately, it occurs to me that I no longer feel water running down my back. I don't, because he's standing there between the jet of water and me. Right behind me.

I turn my head as far as I'm able so I can see his expression. I catch a glimpse of his face, but I can't read him at all. I don't know what he means.

Then suddenly, I feel him pressing against the side of my butt. Hard and ready. I know exactly what he wants, now.

And, god help me... I want it too.

He rocks his hips forward and back slightly a couple of times, pressing harder and harder against my hip. My body goes on full alert and it takes very little time before I find myself with a rock-hard erection of my own. I try to turn, so I can face him, but he holds me there.

"We're doing things my way," he says. His voice is hoarse and his tone sounds just deliciously evil.

"Your way?" I all but gasp. "And just what way is that?"

"I'm in control," he explains. "And you're not." I'm about to protest, but he quickly continues, "Just let go. Give in. You know you want to. You might even find you'll like it better this way."

"No! I-"

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says, in his usual soft and caring tone. "I promise I won't. Just give in. Let me show you that you really don't need to be in control of everything all the time."

"But-"

"No buts. Don't you trust me yet?"

"Yes." It's just a low whisper. I do trust him – implicitly. I can't explain how I know that I can, but I trust him completely. And even if I tried to tell him I don't want this, there is no way he'd believe me anyhow. I do want this and my body's betraying my thoughts. I want him. And somewhere deep inside me, there's a desperate need to let him have his way.

"Good."

With his knee, he moves my legs further apart. I resist only enough for him to think I'm not completely willing to let him gain control of me. There's a chuckle - he knows I'm bluffing, I'm sure of it.

I let out a small yelp as I feel a couple of his fingers slide up inside me. Invading me. He jabs them in and out several times and the initial, odd, tingling sensation turns into waves of heat that radiate from my ass to my balls every time he pushes his fingers back up inside me.

I barely feel anything but the cool tile against my left arm, the water flowing at my feet and the fire that's starting to spread through my entire body.

"I wish I knew what to call you," he says against my ear.

"I don't care," I answer, panting. "Call me whatever you want. Just... oh, god, just please, more. More."

"How about..." he starts, pulling both fingers out. I turn my head sharply, looking at him as though he's taken something from me that he wasn't allowed to rid me of. And I'm about to beg, literally, for him to continue what he was doing, when I feel another part of his anatomy, just as rigid - if not more - start to force its way into me. "...if I call you..." he lets out and I feel him pushing himself slowly, inch by powerful inch, right up my ass. "...mine." he gasps.

"Yes," I exclaim loudly as he gives a sharp thrust.

He slides out and all but rams right back inside of me. "Mine." he says again, his voice now hoarse and low.

Again, he thrusts inside of me, fast and hard.

And again.

"You're totally mine," he insists.

Once more, he retreats and plunges back deep into me.

Again.

And again.

"Come on, say it," he commands.

I hear myself respond in a whisper that seems to come from far away. "Yours."

He takes my right hand in his, gently but assertively, forcing me to wrap it around my balls. He squeezes ever so lightly and I respond with a strangled cry of pleasure.

I feel our hands sliding on my shaft, up and down, and down and up. He lets go of my hand, but I am unable to stop the movement. I go on while he keeps sliding in, out, in, out, in an almost regular motion. Over and over and over. And I'm losing myself – my mind - just as I've stopped trying to control, anticipate, analyze.

He says something, but between my heart pounding in my ears, the sound of water cascading down our backs, and cries of pleasure coming from both of us alternatively, I can't really tell what it is that he's trying to tell me. I think I reply, but I'm not even certain I've said it out loud.

I hear him scream loudly, and he gives one hard thrust of his hips, forcing himself even further inside me. I let out a scream of my own, and I explode, literally; climaxing so powerfully I'm this close to blacking out.

"Mine," I hear him whisper and he kisses the side of my neck.

I turn my head to the side to look at him. And I have to refrain myself from agreeing with him - from telling him that I _am_ his. Completely. Irrevocably. His.

Because... I can't. I can't tell him that. I... I just can't.

He reaches in closer and kisses me, on the mouth this time. Hard. And I respond just as fiercely, just as hard, as if I couldn't possibly get enough of him.

"I really wish I knew what to call you," he tells me before leaving me alone in the shower again.

"Bruce," I whisper to myself, knowing full well he cannot hear me. "My name... is Bruce."


	9. Chapter 9

It takes me forever to finally come out of the bathroom. I stood on the other side of the door for what seems like endless minutes, unable to grasp the doorknob and step into the living room. Because stepping into the living room means facing him again. And I can't.

I just can't.

I'd have to admit that he's right and I'm wrong. About everything. I'd have to confess that I'm staying here, not because I have nowhere else to go... but because I choose to. Because, as much as I try to deny it, I need him. I want him. I literally ache for him.

But this just can't work. It can't. And I can't make it. This isn't my life. It can't be. I can't _let it_ be.

I can't.

When I finally find the courage to leave the bathroom, I find that I'm all alone. I don't know how long he's been gone, but he's not here anymore. He hasn't been here since I got out of the shower for certain, or I would have heard him leave and I haven't heard a thing. Then again, he seems to have quite a few tricks up his sleeve - maybe he's been taking classes with Houdini. Who the hell knows?

I grab my belongings, stuff them in my backpack, and get ready to leave. I take a last look around, just in case I might have forgotten something. I don't think I could possibly have, being as though there are so very little of my things that I have carried with me all the way out here.

I spot his notepad on the counter and, against my better judgment, I go over there, pick up a pencil, and start writing.

 _< Thank you. For everything. I'm sorry things didn't work out the way you thought they would.>_

That's more feeling than I have put into words in a while. I hope he realizes that when he reads it.

I _am_ genuinely sorry. He's a nice guy. Only, there was never any chance of anything more between us than friendship - and that's already a lot, considering. There was no way this could turn into anything else. He doesn't fit in my life.

What am I saying? Of course he doesn't. It's not like I really ever thought he might.

=:=

I'm walking down the street when, all of a sudden, I see that man again – the one who seemed to be following me, the other day. I was right - he is following me.

I try to spot him again as I keep walking, looking for his reflection in windows from the shops lining the street, and in side-mirrors on the cars I pass, but I don't see him anymore. I haven't turned around again to look, knowing that if I did he'd know I'm on to him. Turning around once could be coincidence, but looking over my shoulder every few steps would look suspicious. I'm smart enough to know not to do anything of the sort. As long as I'm walking down a busy street, I figure I'm safe for now. That's not going to last for very long, however; I'm eventually going to end up on a street that isn't a commercial one.

Somehow, I make it to my destination without catching another glimpse of the guy. He made himself scarce for some reason. Why would he follow me, yet never attempt anything? If he's been tracking my movements, he knows where I'm sleeping and where I spend my days - but no one's made any move and I can't figure out why.

Maybe I'm just imagining things?

=:=

When I come out of the cigarette factory at the end of the day, the sun is about to set and it's quickly getting dark outside.

As a result, I don't notice the small boy turning the corner of the street. He crashes right into me and I'm not nearly quick enough to stop him from falling to the ground. I bend down and grab him by the arm, pulling him upright again.

He looks around nervously – he seems to be very frightened of something. Or someone. Immediately, he starts yelling at me to let him go. He's trying very hard to get away from me and I can't help but wonder what he could possibly be running away from.

The boy – he must be about six years old – is crying now, hitting me with his little fists. I hear voices and footsteps approaching, and finally I see a couple of guys – grown-ups – coming towards us. One of them is carrying a baseball bat, and he gets a nasty expression on his face when he catches a glimpse of the kid who's still desperately trying to get away from me.

For the life of me, I can't imagine what this poor boy could possibly have done for two grown men to be running after him with a baseball bat! Even if he had stolen something from them, this is quite a bit past extreme – there is no earthly way this boy is any match for them.

I take a step forward and attempt to ask what the hell these guys think they're doing. The biggest of the two – he's almost twice my size - says it's none of my business, but whatever he says after that, I don't understand at all.

The kid suddenly changes his tactics and starts begging for me to protect him. I try and reassure him quickly, then I tell him to hide somewhere and I release him. Out of the corner of my eye I see him take refuge on the side of a building.

The guy with the bat makes an attempt to run toward the boy, but I manage to kick him in the knee and he drops his weapon, yelling in pain. Quickly, I kick the baseball bat at as far away as I can.

The second guy, thinner and taller, comes at me, fists raised. Since he's protecting his face, I opt to kick him in the groin. I miss and hit him on the thigh, staggering back by a few steps. The other guy gets up again and rushes towards me.

I'm going to have a hell of a time fighting both of these guys off, I just know it. The trouble is that I need to be careful – I've been kicked in the head earlier this week and another blow might potentially cause some serious damage. I will fight them off, though, since I have to.

I don't care what the boy's done to them, I'm not letting two grown men beat up a poor, defenseless little kid. That's just not happening. No way, no how!

Suddenly, I hear a voice behind me.

"Can't you ever solve your problems with anything but your fists?"

 _Kansas_.

What's he doing here? He sounds very disappointed, but I really don't have time to reassure him right now. I wasn't getting myself in trouble – I am _not_ in trouble!

Unless you count having to overpower a couple guys all by myself as trouble, of course.

"Look, I could really use a hand," I tell him, as I dodge a fierce uppercut. "But if you're not going to help, then just leave!"

"I'm not going to help you beat up a couple of innocent guys!" he protests.

"They're not innocent! Trust me, okay? Just trust me, _Kansas_. For once?"

I know I'm not exactly the nicest, kindest guy around, and since we've met, I've gotten into more pointless fights than most people he knows, I'm pretty much convinced of it. But I'm not lying and I wish he would believe me when I say this. These guys are far from innocent. And for once, this is neither a pointless fight, nor a way for me to blow off some steam.

"Okay," he says and he jumps in besides me, sending the thinnest of the guys flying with one really well placed jab to the chin.

A few more punches and kicks later and both of the men are left lying unconscious on the ground.

"Thanks," I tell my friend, wiping a bit of blood off my face. Once again, I notice that he doesn't seem to have been hurt at all. I wasn't paying that much attention, but looks like he's a wiz at protecting himself.

Quickly, I run over to the side of the building, where I last saw the little boy the two men were bullying. I find him hiding under part of a cardboard box that he must have found lying on the ground. I lift it off and move it to the side. The boy stares at me with big brown eyes – he still looks terrified but he seems to understand that I'm not going to hurt him.

"You're safe," I tell him.

He smiles shyly at me. I don't know how to explain this to him properly in his own language, so I mumble something that I hope sounds close enough to what I'm trying to tell him. He looks around the corner of the building and sees both men lying there on the ground, not moving. He lets out what I can only imagine is an expression of joy and throws himself at me, wrapping his arms around my thigh and squeezing tightly.

 _Kansas_ joins us a moment later. He looks at the boy, then at me with a strange expression.

The boy looks up to him and gives him a toothy smile, exposing a gap where a missing baby tooth used to be.

"What? Can't believe I'd want to help someone other than myself?" I ask, somewhat sarcastically.

"Oh, I believe it. I'm just... I don't know. Surprised, I guess?"

"He was being chased by these two guys," I explain. "Yelling and crying. I don't know what he could have done to them, but I don't see any possible reason why two adults would want to beat up a child his age. I couldn't let them, you know?"

"Looks like there may be some hope for you after all." He gives me a lopsided smile.

"Yeah, yeah." If it were anyone else, I wouldn't let him get away with a comment like that, I'm sure of it. "Look, I can't really communicate with the kid. But I'm pretty sure you can. Why don't you ask him where his parents are so we can take him back to them?"

He bends down to the kid's height and starts talking to him. I catch a few words here and there, but a good part of their conversation is completely lost on me. At one point I notice the boy is about to start crying. He hasn't let go of me yet and he buries his face in my thigh, squeezing it as tightly as his arms will allow.

"What is it?" I ask, running a hand through his hair, hoping to soothe whatever it is that caused this reaction.

"I asked him what happened and he says they got angry with him – that they were going to punish him. He says he hasn't done anything. Only he's always being punished for something."

"Poor kid," I whisper slowly, looking down upon the small boy. He is still crying and holding onto me as tight as he can.

 _Kansas_ attempts to talk to the kid some more, but I don't think he's getting much information from him at all. It's all the boy can do to breathe between his sobs.

"There's no point going to look for his parents," my friend announces as he stands up again. "He's an orphan." There's a pained look on his face as he tells me this, just as I'm sure there is on mine as I learn of it.

"Oh." I don't know what to say, really. The thought strikes me - hard. Very hard. He's younger than I was when my parents died and I honestly feel sorry for this poor little boy. I might not be very good at expressing them or showing them, but I do have _some_ feelings – sometimes.

"He says they - the guys who were after him - _own_ him." He shakes his head slowly, brow furrowed in what I can only guess is bewilderment.

"Own?" I echo, frowning. " _Own_ him? How is that possible?"

"Yeah, own," he repeats, slowly. Clearly, he finds this just as unbelievable as I do. "I don't know. That's what he says."

"But that's... _horrible_!"

My head fills with scenarios – every one more terrible than the one before – but for the life of me I don't understand how such a thing is possible. I'm completely outraged. Children are not commodities – you do not buy and sell them – you do not _own them_! And even if he's exaggerating in his explanation, even if he means that he works for them in some way, this boy is about six years old for God's sake! He has no business working, he should be in school or playing with his friends – something that resembles childhood. Not doing hard labor for anyone. There are laws against this! I don't care if this is the middle of nowhere, it's not right!

I try to move the kid away somewhat, but he won't budge. He must be scared out of his wits. I wouldn't exactly blame him. He lets go of me when he realizes I'm bending down. He looks at me and wipes his eyes; his hands are dirty, leaving dark marks on his cheeks as he rubs them. Using the end of my sleeve, I try to clean his face a little bit and he gives me a huge, happy smile before literally throwing his little arms around my neck. Perhaps he thinks I'll be taking care of him now?

"What do we do with him?" I ask.

"I'm not sure. I would guess taking him to a police station is the best option. If he'll go," _Kansas_ says, shrugging.

I wonder if taking him to the authorities is really the right thing to do in this case. I remember that it's what they did with me when they found me crying over the bodies of my mother and father – of course, they needed me to testify as to what I'd seen. This boy simply needs to be taken somewhere they'll care for him. I'm not exactly sure a police station - or whatever their equivalent is - is the right place for him to get that. But I can't think of anything better...

The boy is holding onto me for dear life and I have to lift him up as I stand. He won't let go at all. And as much as I would like to pretend he's just a kid and it doesn't really matter, the fact is that this situation is becoming harder to deal with by the second. I'm getting all sorts of flashbacks from that night, in the alley, when I saw my parents get shot. When I saw them die. And it's getting more and more painful to think about.

"Can you..." I start, but the words stay stuck in my throat. I cough and try again. "Can you, please, take him? I can't- I can't do this. I just really, really can't do this."

"What's wrong?"

"Please." I can't say anything past that, all I'm able to do is stare at my friend, with what I can only imagine is a pained expression.

He reaches for the kid, but the little guy disapproves and he tightens his grip around my neck so much he's choking me. I cough and grab his arms, forcing him to let go. _Kansas_ pulls him away from me, telling him in a soothing tone that he's a friend. He says something to the effect that he'll take care of him; that he'll take him someplace he'll be safe.

The boy reaches a hand and grabs the shoulder of my jacket, sobbing and kicking _Kansas_ in protest. I manage to explain to him that it's okay and that no one will hurt him anymore and he finally relaxes. He looks to _Kansas_ , then again to me, with a questioning look. I nod, encouragingly and he releases the fistful of fabric he's been holding on to.

"Thanks," I tell my friend, with a small sigh of relief.

"Will you be okay?" he asks me. He's frowning, concern obvious on his face.

Over the last few days, I have sometimes asked myself why he cares, but right now I'm kind of glad there's someone out there who does. I'm not about to confess to that, though. But it won't stop me from thinking it and being grateful for it.

"Of course." I'm trying to sound detached, but I'm pretty sure I've missed my mark. The smile he gives me tells me he's pretty much seen through my act anyway.

He turns and starts to walk off. The boy raises his head and looks over to me. He says something that sounds like a thank you and waves at me with his little hand.

As I stand there, looking at my friend walking away with the boy, I'm reminded of a day, long, long ago. A much happier day. I was about this child's age, I guess – I'm not certain anymore. My dad had promised to take me to the Gotham City Summer Fair and I clearly recall how big a deal that was for me. Riding the Ferris wheel and all the other rides. Mom was going to come with us, but she wasn't feeling up to it, I guess, because she stayed home. I remember my father lifting me up off the ground, taking me in his arms, and us walking away toward the car. I waved goodbye to my mother who waved back at me, smiling and blowing kisses in the wind.

I am rooted in place for a long moment, unable to move, as tears start welling up in my eyes. I can't believe I'm going to start crying – that hasn't happened in so many years. Of course, I haven't had such a vivid memory of my parents come back to me in a very long time, either.

As _Kansas_ and the boy disappear into the night, I silently curse every single adult who has ever harmed a child, no matter what the reason. And I curse the man who has hurt me so profoundly without even so much as laying a finger on me. He took from me what no man should be allowed to take from anyone – something I can never get back, something he could not even touch, or sell, or profit from. He took away everything that made me happy in the world. He took away the only chance I ever had of growing up in a nice, loving family. He murdered my parents and, with them, he took away my future.

It takes a long while before I start moving again. I walk aimlessly for quite some time. I'm completely lost in this maze of streets, but for now, it's the least of my worries. I'm not up to seeing or talking to anyone. I want to be by myself and I don't want anyone asking if I'm all right or if I need anything. I want to be alone with all the memories in my head, while they're still there. Just a few minutes more, as long as I'm able to hang on to them, of images of my parents, back when my life was normal and I hadn't yet realized that the world is not always a perfect place and that bad things sometimes happen to really good people.

=:=

I don't know why I came back here. I wasn't planning to. I wasn't supposed to. I just ended up in front of his door. It was locked, oddly enough. It's never been before, as far as I can remember. I knocked, but there was no answer. I'm not sure what possessed me to do it, but I jammed the blade of my pocketknife in the keyhole and forced the door open. And I'm sitting on the couch, my head in my hands, when he walks in the door.

"I didn't think I'd find you here," he says. "How did you get in?"

"Picked your lock." I shrug. Probably not the smartest thing I've ever done, but at least I'm being honest about it. What's the point in hiding it from him anyway? There's no other way in, except for a window and I can't exactly fly up from the ground to the third floor in order to get in through there.

"You know in most countries, breaking and entering is a crime," he informs me with a stern voice.

"Yeah. But I also know you wouldn't press charges." I'm pretty sure this is true, but then again, I'm not exactly in his good graces right now, am I? Actually, I think he resents me a bit, so I wouldn't put it past him to try and get his revenge. He doesn't strike me as the type of person who would do that, but then again, how well do I know this guy to begin with?

He mumbles something I can't really make out, then adds, "Why are you here? I thought you'd left?"

"I, uh, I didn't know where else to go." It's a half-truth. I haven't looked for a place I might have gone to. The actual truth is that I ended up here because I didn't _want_ to be anywhere else. "I mean, I could have... Look, I'll just go. I didn't mean to be in your way."

I get up from the couch and walk up to the door with the clear intention of leaving.

"You don't have to go anywhere," he insists, moving between the door and me, as if he can keep me here that way. "You're not in the way. You know you're not. How many times do I need to tell you that you're perfectly welcome here?"

"Why do you do this?" I ask without thinking. I know why he does this and I also know he's not very likely to give me a straight answer.

"Why wouldn't I?" He shrugs. "You'd do the same for me."

He really believes that? I think maybe he sees the world through rose colored glasses, this guy. "I think you have me confused with someone else," I tell him, frowning.

"I don't think so. You and I are more alike than you think."

"You're delusional," I protest. He can't be serious? We're not the least bit alike. "You and I are like opposite sides of a coin. You're kind and generous – I'm just an asshole who likes to get his point across with his fists." That's what he said I did, isn't it?

"That's not at all what I see," he counters. "And that's not what the little boy you helped protect, saw either. You know what he told me when I left him with a police officer, earlier?"

"Do I want to know?"

I don't. But I'm sure he doesn't care that I'd rather not know.

"I'm sure you don't, so I'll tell you anyway. He looked up at me and asked if you were my friend. And then he said he wished he had a friend like that, too."

"He's just a kid – what does he know? I'm not a friendly guy – never have been, never will. I just saw someone who needed help." I shrug. "Anyone would have done the same if they'd been in my shoes."

"No." He shakes his head slowly. "Not _everyone_. Believe me."

"Look, could we not talk about this?" I ask. I don't want him to start convincing me that I'm a good guy. I'm not. I mean, I'm not a criminal, but I don't exactly rank very high on the compassionate scale.

"Why? What is it about tonight that's made you so miserable?"

"I don't want to talk about it, okay?" Why doesn't he just drop it? How many different ways do I have to tell him that I don't want to go over this with him.

"You know, whatever it is-"

"I don't feel like chatting, _Kansas_. I really don't." I'd tell him to shut up and not push it, but I'm trying not to be that rude. At least for the time being. "I'm going to get out of your hair. I'm sorry I bothered you. I'll just go and see if I can find a pint of better judgment with my name on it somewhere."

"I'm sure getting drunk out of your mind will solve everything," he remarks snidely.

What's _his_ problem?

"It doesn't solve things. I'm not _that_ naive. It just helps forget the pain for a while," I explain. "Besides, who says I plan on getting drunk to begin with?"

"There are other ways to deal with pain, you know," he tells me, with the air of someone who knows.

I glare at him. What does he know about pain? How could he possibly understand the ache that I feel inside? How could he possibly know what it's like to have to live with this gut-wrenching guilt, every single second of every day, with every single breath. If I hadn't begged for us to get out of the theatre... if I hadn't been such a whiny little kid... if I just...

And with that, I get out of there before this discussion gets completely out of hand.

"Don't come back if you're plastered," he throws at me as I close the door. "This isn't a hotel."

Maybe I won't bother to come back even if I'm not plastered.


	10. Chapter 10

I've walked down every damn street in this town by now. Whatever it was that I was looking for, or I hoped to find, it isn't anywhere out there for me to find. Not tonight.

My head is filled with images and memories - of today, of long ago, of things I'd rather not think about or remember. Things that hurt and things I wish I could just forget. But the more I try not to think about them, the more vivid the images that come to me.

And it's driving me completely insane.

That poor kid from earlier today reminds me of myself and, yes, damn it, sometimes when I'm alone at night, I do miss my parents. And I would give anything - anything at all - to be able to turn back the clock. Go back and change things. Make it so that night never took place.

Thomas and Martha Wayne would still be alive today had they not had the misfortune of having such a coward for a son. If I hadn't been afraid of stupid, fake bats in an opera, and if I hadn't begged my dad to leave right away, it never would have happened. We wouldn't have gotten out the back door of the theater and we wouldn't have found ourselves in the presence of that man.

But I did beg, and we did leave, and the man was there.

He fired his gun. My parents died.

I don't see how anyone could possibly convince me that I'm not to blame for setting the events in motion. I didn't fire the damn weapon, but I just as well might have.

I've had more therapy than most people will in their entire life; it hasn't done _anything_ to quell that fountain of guilt. It doesn't matter what shrinks say anyway - they weren't there.

I'm bound to go back home to Gotham at some point. Chill's sentence isn't for life; he'll be back on the streets eventually. And when he does, I'm going to be there. I'm going to be there, and I'm going to make sure he's taken care of; the way the justice system _should_ have, years ago.

For fifteen years now the man's been sitting in a cozy jail cell, no doubt hoping to get out on good behavior. Meanwhile, I've been living a nightmare every single day of my life. And that's supposed to be fair. That's supposed to be just.

Well, I don't agree.

He's a murderer. A prison sentence isn't anywhere near severe enough; it's merely a slap on the wrist in comparison to the havoc he wreaked that night. He destroyed the lives of two people and annihilated a third's future. He needs to pay for that.

He _will_ pay.

I will see justice done if I have to do it myself. I will get revenge.

As if this wasn't already enough for one to have to deal with, I'm being chased by god knows who – for a reason that I can't figure out at all. All I know is that these guys are armed; and I'm not. Should I find myself alone, in front of any of these terrorists and their machine guns, I'm dead meat. All I have to defend myself are my fists and a few well-placed kicks. Martial arts training, no matter how good it is, can't make up for the lack of a firearm.

Everywhere I've gone over the last couple of days, I always get this strange impression that someone is following me. I can never get a glimpse of them, though. And once I notice that I'm being followed, it's already too late – they've noticed that I've seen them and they've disappeared into thin air.

The truth is that I'm starting to be a bit afraid now. No kidding. I don't have any leverage – I have no cash. Mind you, I'd find a way to pay them off if I knew this is what they're after, but somehow I think that if they'd wanted money from me, they would have asked for it _before_ knocking me out cold.

I don't have a clue who they are or where I can find them, and even though I've tried to get information – they speak Persian for god's sake, how many people like that are there in Nepal right now? – it's like these guys don't even exist. Like they're ghosts or a figment of my imagination. Well, I can tell you one thing: figments of my imagination don't usually kick me in the head!

Just to add to everything that's going crazy and not making any sense to me, there's this guy I met. Real nice guy, the type you want to be friends with. And damn good-looking to boot, which is what made this go completely out of hand. I didn't actually have anything in mind when we started talking – I didn't! But he put an idea in my head - somehow. Maybe he did it on purpose, now that I think about it. Damned if I can tell anymore. The bottom line is that he got me thinking and I started wanting and... well, one thing led to another. I thought we both understood that this was just going to lead to a little physical fun, but it got completely out of hand.

He kissed me, I kissed him back and... I've desperately wanted to kiss him again, and again, since then. I broke my rule, however stupid it was, and I'm paying the price for that in more ways than one. For one thing, it's become quite clear that this guy has feelings for me. And I don't know how to deal with that. I wasn't prepared for that, nor have I never thought I'd have to deal with anything like it in my life.

It wasn't supposed to happen!

Actually, that's not the worst thing. The worst thing is that there's a little voice inside of me that's trying to tell me that I should just let go and stop fighting so hard. Sounds like something he'd say, no doubt. Just a stupid little voice saying that it's not wrong and it's not bad and... that maybe, just maybe, if I looked deep enough I might find that some part of me returns his feelings. Except I don't want to listen to that voice. I can't listen to that voice. It's not even a very loud voice; just a whisper. I shouldn't care that it's even talking to me, I shouldn't care what it's saying. If it was right – and if I were really meant to pay attention to it - it would be speaking a lot louder and a lot clearer. It would be using words I understand, too. None of that idealistic crap about love. I'm not in love. Especially not with a _guy_!

I need to stop thinking about all of this because I'm going to lose it completely and they'll be dragging my sorry ass out of here and shipping me straight to Arkham in no time flat, I'm sure.

I'm starved. I don't remember the last time I ate. I was planning on downing a few glasses of something with a high alcohol content, but I didn't. I had an awful tasting cup of coffee and then, I just... wandered around the city. And now I'm really tired. Tired of looking for something I'll never be able to find and tired of walking around in the middle of the night with nowhere to go.

There _is_ a place I can go. Not because I want company or anything. Or maybe I do. I know I don't want to talk about any of this – and I know if I go back there, he's going to ask why I came back. And he's going to look at me with those soft brown eyes and that perpetually concerned expression and he's going to try and convince me that talking about it is a good idea. As if I'd want to _talk_ when he looks at me like that.

Besides... I really don't want to chat - at all. He wouldn't understand what it is about that kid that's gotten me in this state – he couldn't possibly comprehend that sort of pain, that sort of guilt. And I'm absolutely _not_ having a conversation with him about, well... you know? I'm not discussing my feelings with him. I don't have any feelings, anyway. They don't exist. They're as imaginary as the voice, which I won't tell him about, either.

This said, for some crazy reason that I can't explain, the last thing I want right now is to be by myself. I'd like to feel that I'm not completely alone. As if it would make me feel more _alive_ to be in the presence of another human being. And strangers in a bar just won't do. But a friendly face would, if that makes any sense.

Maybe if I asked nicely, he might let me in again?

It's probably a bad idea. Of course, in my haste to leave earlier, I left all my things over there. I'm going to need them back at some point. Though, admittedly, now is probably not the right time for this. Then again, I don't think tomorrow or the day after would be any better. It's not that late yet... he might still be up.

So I try and find my way back. Thoughts are still running through my head at the speed of light. Why isn't _Kansas_ telling me what happened the other night in the bar? What business did Chill have, pulling that trigger – he had the money and the jewelry, what else was there that he could possibly have wanted? Who would want to come after me? Are they out to kill me? What the hell am I doing, falling for a guy?

No... wait. I'm not. I'm not falling for a guy. Stupid voice in my head. Shut up, already!

By the time I realize where I am, I'm just a few yards away from his place. Suddenly, I notice a man coming my way, in the distance. A man I don't recognize, who starts shouting at me, in Persian, to throw my hands in the air and not move, if I value my life. He's one of them. Whoever they are, he's one of them. Well, there's fat chance of me just holding up my hands and standing still! I do value my life – however screwed up it may be - and I'm sure as hell going to fight for it. I look around quickly, but I see no one else there. Looks like this time it's just him and me. Luckily, I've got my head about myself, this time. Mostly, anyway. I'm sober, at least.

All he seems to have is a handgun. I can't see it very well, but logic would dictate that it's a semi-automatic. No one in their right mind has pistols anymore, except in westerns, and last time I checked, this wasn't Hollywood -- it's reality. Either way, I'm certain what the man has isn't a machine gun, which means that I've got a chance to get out of this alive.

Quickly, I take a survey of my surroundings; examining them closely and making a mental inventory of anything that can be useful at this point. Objects or places to hide. Anything so I'll have a fighting chance. Maybe even an advantage.

He's still yelling at me to put my hands up in the air again and, when I don't comply, he fires a shot. He's still too far to have any chance of hitting his mark, but I throw myself to the ground anyway – he's expecting me to react and this is the perfect opportunity to hide. I roll to my right and will myself to blend into the shadows, waiting for him to come toward me, knowing he can't see me clearly until he gets a lot closer.

He shoots again – go figure, considering he's aiming blind.

His gun's probably got a clip of about eight shots, so that would mean there's six left, assuming he had a full clip to begin with. I wonder how many more blind shots I can fool him into taking?

I grab a tin can that's lying on the ground and throw it farther away, still in the shadows where he can't see. Sure enough, the guy shoots again. And just like that, we're down another bullet. The odds are starting to look better and better all the time. Mind you, he's a nervous guy and that really doesn't play in my favor at all. He's going to shoot at every noise he hears and if I'm not careful he just might accidentally get me.

I get up from the ground, making as little noise as possible, and I flatten myself against the wall as much as I humanly can. I can see him, but I'm pretty sure he can't see me there. The fool is walking around with his gun pointed in front of him – if he keeps it there and walks up to me, I would have a chance to kick it out of his hand.

He's almost here. I take a deep breath and ready myself. He'll be here in a second or two. He walks slowly now. I can tell he knows I'm not very far away; he just hasn't caught sight of me yet. He's going to if he keeps looking to his left, though. So, before he has a chance to see me, I leap out of the shadows and aim a kick directly at his hand. All that martial arts training has paid off it seems because I hit my target and send the gun flying right out of his hand.

The man screams in pain and grabs his injured hand with the other one. I don't wait to see what he's going to do, though – I jump on the gun that's fallen to the ground, just a few feet away. I grab it. It's a Russian handgun, as far as I can tell. I wish I knew more about these so I would know exactly how many bullets are left in the clip just by holding the gun in my hand. I can only guess that there is at least one, because the slide is still locked and these things open automatically when the last round has been fired.

The fact that he spoke Persian and had a Russian semi-auto leads me to think he might have come from Afghanistan. With the Russian occupation, there were a lot of these guns circulating around the country, on both sides of the conflict. For the life of me, though, I can't imagine who I might have rubbed the wrong way in Afghanistan. Who would want me dead? It can't be just coincidence that this guy was coming at me with a firearm and shouting orders at me in Persian – for one thing, he had to know that I was indeed his target, not to mention the last person I heard speaking the language yielded a machine gun and tried to kick my brains out of my skull. Besides, it isn't like the place is crawling with foreigners right now. Most outsiders have fled the country when the conflict with India began. There's no telling how a situation like this blockade might evolve – in these parts, it often turns into war.

I aim the gun at him and inform him that he's going to have to start answering my questions if he wants to see the sun come up in the morning. I don't intend to shoot, mind you – not unless I absolutely have to. And even then, _if_ I shoot, you can bet I'm not going to aim to kill. I don't care that _he_ was going to shoot to kill - _I_ don't work that way. I do _not_ kill people in dark alleys. I'm not an executioner. I don't make orphans out of eight-year-old boys. That's something someone else would do. Something someone else _did_. And I'm not that man. I'm not anything like him. I'm not. The fact that I want to make him suffer – and pay - for all that he's taken from me does not make me a cold-blooded killer. I'm not like him.

The man in front of me says something. I blink, focusing my attention on him. It's dark and I have to make an effort to see him well enough. My eyes grow wide as I realize for the first time who this is. I don't understand what he's doing here, but I do know one thing: all bets are off. What I said about not killing a man? It doesn't apply to _him_. This man should die. He _deserves_ to die. And I should be the one to pull the trigger, too. Joe Chill does not deserve to live!

"Came to finish the job?" I throw at him. "Came to finish what you started fifteen years ago?"

He looks at me with a puzzled expression.

"Oh, don't take me for a fool," I shout. "You can't hide the truth from me, I can see it in your eyes. This is why you came all the way out here. You want me dead, don't you?"

He still looks at me, silent, unmoving. I kick him in the legs to encourage him to spill it, keeping the gun aimed at his head all the time. He takes a step backward and starts protesting that he doesn't know what I'm talking about; that he doesn't understand.

"Yes, you do!" I shout. My heart is pounding in my ears so hard I can barely hear myself screaming at him. So I scream louder still. "You killed them. And I'm going to kill you!"

I'm about to tell him that he doesn't deserve to live, that he has no right to walk the earth freely as he does, when I hear a voice from somewhere behind me. Someone is telling me to stop, to drop the gun.

"No!" I yell. "I won't drop the gun!"

Who is it talking to me? I know this voice. I recognize it. I shake my head and blink, trying to remember who that voice belongs to. I won't look behind me; I won't take my eyes off my target. If I do, he'll run. If I do, he'll get away.

"You won't get away," I shout. "You. Aren't. Getting. Away."

"Let him go," the voice says calmly.

Is that Alfred? How did he catch up with me? No one knows I'm here. He wasn't supposed to find me again – not until I wanted to be found. No! He's not supposed to be here. He's not here.

"NO!" I scream.

I try to block the voice out, concentrating instead on the man before me. The rest isn't important. I have him now. I have him and I'm not letting him go. I will get my revenge. I will make him pay. He's going to die for what he did. He will.

Chill squirms as I take a step forward in his direction, my arms stretched out in front of me, holding the gun tightly, aiming directly at his forehead. He drops to his knees, begging for mercy. He knows these are his last few breaths he's taking. He knows, and there's panic in his eyes as he looks at me, hands held up as if he's surrendering.

"You murdered my parents," I growl through gritted teeth, as I get ready to squeeze the trigger.

The voice I hear keeps telling me I'm wrong.

 _He's not the man you think he is. Let him go._

 _You're not a killer, Bruce. Let him go._

 _Drop the gun._

 _Let him go._

"I'm not listening to you!" I protest. "Shut up! Shut up! You're wrong! Shut up! It _is_ him!"

I'm about to pull the trigger. I will pull the trigger. I _want to_ pull the trigger. But suddenly, there's someone there – blocking the way.

 _Kansas_?

He's standing in front of the gun. What's he doing there? We're really close to his place - I remember now. But what is he doing standing there directly in the line of fire?

"Get out of the way," I tell him, fuming. "I don't want to hurt you. It's _him_ I'm after."

"Don't do this," he says. "He's not the one who killed your parents. Look at him."

I blink a couple of times at the man who is still kneeling on the ground, head in his hands, muttering to himself. I shake my head sharply once, then again. My eyes must be playing tricks on me. That man isn't Joe Chill. Yet he was a second ago. I swear he was!

"How can that be? He was standing there just a second ago. He was. I saw him! What's going on?"

I'm not sure if I'm actually saying any of this out loud, but I must have been, I guess, because I get an answer.

"He's not the man who killed your parents. Let him go," my friend says. He grabs the gun I'm still holding, ripping it out of my hands.

He turns and tells the man to get out of here. To _run_ out of here. To tell his associates that he knows who they are and that they will stay away if they know what's best for them. I don't know how he manages to sound confident as he gives him that warning – it's obviously a pack of lies. There are more of them than there are of us for certain, and if they show up with machine guns again, we're both going to be turned into strainers.

The man gets up and disappears, running as fast as I've seen anyone run in a very long time.

 _Kansas_ turns to me again. "Come on," he says, his tone quiet, almost relaxed. "We should get out of here."

I look at him, bewildered. What just happened here? I don't understand how my sense of reality was altered so badly. I can't believe what I was about to do. I was going to shoot that man in the head. I was going to kill him because I thought he was someone else. What have I become?

"I- I- don't- it wasn't-" I stutter. I'm trying to explain, but things aren't making any sense in my head anymore. I don't know what's going on. I can't tell which part was real and which was just my imagination. I don't know. I don't understand. I'm lost. I'm completely, utterly lost.

"It's okay," he says. "Come on. Come with me."

"I was going to kill him," I whisper. "I was going- I would have- Oh, god, what am I doing?"

I feel myself being pushed away from the scene. He's forcing me to walk toward his flat, a few yards away. I keep staring down that the spot where the man was. The man I almost killed. The man I would have killed if my friend hadn't shown up in time to stop me.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of this was written on the drive back from Denali to Anchorage. Huuuuge thank you to Jessi for letting me type away while she drove. She never even complained that I was being awful, ignoring her like that. And she even stopped and turned around so I could snap a picture of a "Batmobile" parked along the side of the road, in Houston. I miss Alaska already!
> 
> I also owe my very favorite pink editor a great big debt of gratitude for beta-reading this faster than a speeding bullet and helping me make this so much better than it was before, but also for being so supportive of this whole entire thing (including putting up with my random comments about Batman's pure awesomeness), and just for being there to shoot the breeze, and making me laugh again when things aren't amusing anymore.
> 
> Friends like this are truly _priceless_.

I walk inside, still trying to make sense of what happened out there. I don't know how I could have gotten confused to the point of mistaking my fantasies – twisted fantasies – for realities.

I feel numb. Completely, absolutely numb. And alone. So alone.

I wanted to lose myself - and I've succeeded. I'm so far gone that I don't even recognize myself anymore. I don't know who this person is, but it's not me.

This is not _me_.

This is not who I want to be.

I'm terrified by the realization that I'm losing control over who I am. And even more so that I can't seem to stop it from happening - that it's going to happen whether I want it or not.

I turn to my friend as he walks in just behind me and closes the door.

"Help," I mumble dazedly. "I'm... lost."

"You're right here," he says in that eternally gentle tone of his. "You're right here with me. You're okay. You're safe."

He runs his hand down my arm to support the claim that I'm not in any danger, and I feel an overwhelming need to be close to him. To feel something – anything - that will prove to me that this, right now, right here, is reality, and not some twisted nightmare. Like before; like outside. I need to know that I'm not going completely insane. That I'm not turning into a monster. Or dying on the inside.

If he feels something for me, then maybe I could get some of that from him? Maybe it would rub off on me? Or I could get him to show me. Show me how to feel. Pull me out of this abyss I'm falling into. Help me. Bring me back.

Acting on pure instinct, my brain no longer truly in charge or controlling my actions, I  
grab him by the front of his shirt.

"Need you," I mumble as an explanation.

I swing him toward the wall, pinning him there, one of my thighs between his and my mouth crushing his own. I grab his wrists, preventing him from fighting me off. He's trapped between the wall and me and I'm not letting him go anywhere. He protests, mildly it seems, but then gives in completely.

A rush of adrenaline surges through my veins at that instant as I realize that I'm in control. That I hold the power. And it feels nice. I like to be in control. I _need_ to be in control.

I abruptly release him when it hits me that this is not the sort of control, or power, that I'm after at all. This is not controlling a situation or an event and turning it in my favor; this is me, forcing myself on someone. This isn't what I need, or what I want at all. This isn't even what I meant to do – I just needed to feel...something. Something to prove that I'm not on a path to self-destruction. But this isn't feeling; this is just brute force. And that's exactly what I shouldn't be doing. Especially not to the one person alive who even cares one bit what happens to me. No one with half a brain – or half a beating heart – would do things like this.

I've become a monster.

I take a step back, disgusted with myself, and mumble an inaudible apology.

"Calm down," he says simply. He doesn't sound angry at all and somehow that makes it even worse.

I look around anxiously. I need to leave. I have to go. Can't stay here. Don't want to hurt him. Not him. Never him. I take a step toward the door and I look at him with sincere regret, remorse, even.

"I'm sorry," I say softly. "I'll leave now."

"Don't leave," he says, moving between me and the door. "You _don't_ have to leave. Stay. Talk to me. Tell me what's wrong. Let me help."

"You wouldn't understand."

Of course he wouldn't. He obviously grew up in a loving, well-adjusted family. Just look at him – he's kind and generous and so... cheerful. All the time. He's just so damn _normal_. Not screwed up, like I am. It's as clear as the nose on his face that this guy hasn't had a difficult childhood. He couldn't possibly know what it's like to lose your mother and father at a time when you still need them so badly. He wouldn't know what it's like to ache for the love of a parent after they're gone. He would have no idea what it's like to live with a burning desire for revenge.

Like I do.

"Try me," he says simply. He looks so sincere.

It's strange to me that someone would really, actually _want_ to be this nice to me. Even after I've been such a jerk. Especially after that. If I were him, I'd want to kick my ass. Hard. But no, he's just being his usual, kind and caring self, and I'm not really sure how to deal with that.

"Don't want to talk... can't talk... not right now." I realize I’m close to begging as I add, "Please?" I don't know how else to tell him that I don't want to talk about it. I really, truly don't. And I don't mean simply because he wouldn't understand. It hurts to think about it. Talking about it would only make it hurt more.

"Okay, okay. I won't force you to."

This is when I know, without the shadow of a doubt, that he's not like me. At all. He wouldn't force me to do anything. Like I would. I would force him to bend to my will. I _did_ force him.

"I'm sorry," I tell him again. "Didn't mean to-" I gesture toward the wall, hoping he'll understand what I'm trying to say but can't find a way to put into words. "I'm so sorry."

"It's all right. Just relax, okay. No harm done."

"I could have hurt you," I tell him, looking everywhere but at him. "I... I'm so sorry. What if I... What if..."

The words won't come out, they're stuck in my head with all the horrible scenarios of things that might have been – that might be. Of me being completely out of control, no longer able to tell right from wrong. Of destroying everything around me. Of doing things I could never, ever forgive myself for. And I'm afraid. I'm very afraid.

"You didn't hurt me. And you wouldn't have, either."

I still can't look him in the eye. "You don't know that. I don't- I don't trust myself. Not right now," I explain. "I should- go... I should _go_."

"Then trust _me_ ," he says. "Stay. I won't let you hurt anyone. Not even yourself. I promise. Trust me."

"How can you trust me this much not to do any harm, when I clearly can't be trusted at all? I would have killed a man tonight if you hadn't stopped me." I take a deep breath before going on, "I could have killed _you_. What possessed you to walk right into the line of fire? That's insane. You couldn't possibly have trusted me so much then that you were certain I wouldn't fire the gun. I could have killed you; you could be dead. Right now, you'd be lying dead over there on the street."

I want to add that I could never live with myself if I ever caused him any such harm; that I'd rather die than see him bleed to death from a bullet that I would have fired. But words fail me and I look down, completely ashamed.

"You wouldn't have killed anyone." He gently tilts my chin up with a finger so I’m looking him in the eyes. His expression is soft and caring – as always. "You're not a murderer."

"I _wanted_ to kill him, you know. I really wanted to see him die." Panic rises up within me as I consider the fact that I seriously wanted that man dead. That, at that moment, my strongest and most urgent desire was to take another man's life.

"Yes, but you wouldn't have pulled the trigger." He sounds as convinced of this as one would be of the fact that the sun rises every morning from the east.

"How can you be so sure?"

"I just know," he tells me, unwaveringly. "Look, maybe you can't see it for yourself, but there's good in you. A lot of it. You seem to want to hide it, but it's still there."

"No, there isn't," I protest. "Maybe there was once, but there no longer is. All there is inside is a desire – an ever-present thirst – for revenge. To take from this man what he took from me. And when I thought that man out here was... I wanted to... and I- I- could have killed _you_ instead."

One person in the world seems to think I'm worth saving and I almost shot him point blank right in the chest. And yet, somehow, he still has faith in me; still believes I'm one of the good guys. Where on earth is this guy from?

"But you didn't," he insists. "And you're not going to harm me. Now or later. _Trust me_."

Part of me wishes he would just let me leave. I'm honestly afraid of what I might do. I'm not myself and I... I think I could be dangerous. But another part of me doesn't want to be left alone. Not right now. Because I'm not myself and I might be dangerous, and because, deep down, I ache for human contact, for warmth and compassion.

"I don't want to be alone," I tell him after a moment, having made my decision. I run my hand nervously through my hair. "I- I don't feel up to explaining. Please don't ask me to. It hits too close to home. But I don't-" I feel my voice catch. "I don't want to be alone."

"You're not alone," he says in that soft, reassuring tone he has to know always works on me. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here."

"Why?" It's more than a one-word question. It encompasses so many others, from " _why are you here_?" to " _why do you even care_?" and everything in between.

"Because," he says, a smile tugging at his lips. And I know that this is more than a one-word answer.

=:=

We sit for some time – neither of us saying anything. I don't know what to say, anyway. And he knows that he shouldn't push it. Sometimes, when I take a deep breath, I feel his hand on my back and it's just enough to make me feel better.

It's nice that he understands so well. That I don't _have_ to explain and that he isn't desperately probing and poking, and trying to get me to spill my guts to him. That's what's nice about a guy, I guess. Women need to get you to open up to them, need to feel like they are a part of whatever pain it is that you're feeling – as if it gives them a sense of purpose. A guy will just sit with you and shut up if you ask him to. He'll give you the time and the space you need – until you decide, on your own, that you want to share something. No pressure. No requirements.

Because a guy understands exactly what it's like to be in another guy's shoes.

I'm not going to talk tonight, and we both know that. So, after a while, I tell myself there isn't much point in forcing him to stay up with me all night. I'm calm now and I'm no longer really frightened of losing my mind, going on a rampage, and hurting innocent people. Not that the man I held at gunpoint tonight was purely innocent, but I wouldn't hurt even him. There's no point in doing that. It wouldn't help alleviate the pain anyway. It really wouldn't. Knowing this, and that things are back to normal – or as normal as they're going to be for now – I tell _Kansas_ that he should probably head off to bed and that I'll be fine.

"Are you sure?" he asks. "I mean, I don't mind..."

"Yeah, I'm sure. I'll be okay on my own now." I look up and smile. It probably looks a bit forced, but it's still genuine. I'm just not in the right state of mind to put on a totally friendly expression. "Thanks, by the way."

"Of course." He pats me on the back as he gets up. "You know where I am if you decide you need anything."

"I'll be fine. But thank you."

He goes to grab his notebook and immediately disappears into his bedroom.

I shut the light off and let my clothes drop in a pile on the floor, then I grab the sheet that's still on the armrest, and lie down on the couch, trying very hard not to give in to the completely overwhelming desire to burst into tears. Grown men don't cry – even over the loss of their parents, when they were just eight years old.

=:=

I've been lying on the couch for over an hour, staring at the ceiling and listening to the faint breathing coming from the bedroom. I've drawn conclusions about things along the way, though I keep changing my mind about everything every other minute. And I'm wondering why I'm being such an idiot. I really didn't want to be out here alone. I just felt bad keeping him up to sit in silence all night long. Truth is, if I could go back, I'd do the selfish thing and ask him to stay.

A few nights ago he made a huge deal about me sleeping out here on his couch, suggesting we could share his bed instead. He insisted, I recall, as a matter of fact. Well, right now, sharing doesn't sound like such a crazy, unthinkable idea anymore. I know it – and I'm sure he knows it, too. Heck, he can see right through me no matter what I say – he probably knows what I’m thinking better than I do.

However, as much as I don't want to be out here by myself right now, I'm afraid of what it would mean for me to walk in there and ask to share his bed. Falling asleep in the same bed after sex is one thing, but just crawling under the covers together to _sleep_ is something entirely different. It sends a completely different message and means a whole lot more than just some senseless kissing or fondling. Especially when you're talking about crawling into bed with another _guy_.

Yet even though I'm scared of the implications, part of me just wants to get up and do it. If I'm being perfectly honest, I would like nothing more than to sleep in a real bed. And if I did, I might actually get some shuteye... instead making up lists of reasons why I should or shouldn't do this, feeling sorry for myself, and desperately aching for someone to hold me and make me believe that things aren't so bad, after all.

I spend a few more minutes – excruciatingly long minutes – contemplating my options before I finally make a decision. Here I am, trying to reinvent myself – give myself a new identity – well, I think my new self is damned tired of staring at the ceiling, second-guessing every single thought that pops into his head. I think my new self would like to sleep in a nice, comfortable bed. Actually, that's not true. What my new self would really like is to feel like there's someone who actually gives a damn, even just a tiny little bit; just enough so that I forget all about that kid from this afternoon, that man for this tonight, and everything else that almost sent me right off the deep end. And, better yet, clear my head of all the images of my father, taking his last breath as he lay in a dark alley, bleeding to death.

And this is the thing: there's a nice bed right over there with a nice, friendly guy in it, who I'm sure wouldn't be the least bit bothered if I went and asked to sleep there. I bet he'd be glad to see me stop being a stubborn ass for once.

All that is waiting for me, right over there in the next room. And you know what? I'll be damned if I'm going to stay here all night and let all of that go to waste.

I get up from the couch slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible, and I silently walk into the bedroom. Once I get there, I realize I could have made as much noise as I pleased – he's not sleeping either.

I clear my throat uncomfortably. "Still okay to share?"

"Lonely? Or you decided you want to chat?" I can hear the smile in his voice.

"Neither," I lie. "I was cold." So what if I was lonely? Mind you, I'm cold, too. In fact, my extremities are as cold as ice – but I think that's mostly because I'm a little past the line marked petrified. "And you've got the warmest covers," I immediately add, as though that explains anything. If it was really covers I was after, I wouldn't ask to share, I'd ask for a blanket and I'd go right back to the couch. It's body heat and a presence I'm after, but there's no way he's going to hear it from me.

"Sure." He sounds like he doesn't believe my motivations at all. It seriously annoys me that he can read me this well.

He moves a bit further towards the edge of the bed and pulls the blankets back, clearly inviting me in. Slowly, I take the few steps that separate me from the bed, and I slip between the sheets. In a swift move, he pulls the blankets over me.

I shiver, though it is mostly just for show. As if I need to offer proof that I was really, honestly, cold out there. Oh, don't get me wrong, I _was_ cold. And while the sheets are not exactly all that warm on this side of the bed, I have greatly exaggerated the fact that they feel cool against my skin.

I turn on my side, facing away from him, and I bring my knees up against my chest, adding to the charade. His hand comes to rest on my shoulder and he rubs my arm vigorously, attempting to help warm me up, I guess. I shiver again – this time for real. And it's not from the cold. It's from his touch.

"More comfortable here, isn't it?"

"I- ah, I was fine."

I hear him chuckle softly. "Sure you were, tough guy."

I wish he would at least make an effort to pretend that he believes me sometimes.

"About... you know... before?" I hesitantly begin after several moments of silence. I should explain all of this to him, I guess. I've got nothing to lose, have I?

"When do you mean? Which part of the evening?" I can't see his face, but I'm sure he's frowning.

"Same difference. It's all about the same thing, really," I explain, as I turn to lie on my back and look over to him.

He has his head propped on his hand now. "I was serious, you know. I'll listen if you want to talk."

"I do. I-" I shake my head. Fifteen years later and this is just as painful to talk about as it was the day after it happened. I stare at the ceiling as I start speaking. I'm not sure I could hold his gaze while I tell him this story. "I lost my parents when I was eight years-old. I- I saw them die. There was a guy – a petty thug - I saw him pull the trigger. I saw- I-"

"That must have been so hard," he whispers.

I stop staring at the ceiling long enough to look at him.

The memory of what the boy was saying this afternoon, along with the images I've been seeing in my head again, of my parents lying dead on the ground in a dark alley, are just about enough to break my heart. Just when I was starting to think maybe I didn't have one...

"Not your fault," I manage to say, though the words don't come out easily at all. There's this huge, annoying lump in my throat and it's threatening to choke me.

"Just think that you're lucky you got to know them," he tells me. His voice is soft and caring, but there's something sad in his tone. A hint of melancholy, perhaps? I'm not sure if it's because he's taking pity on me or on the boy – or something else. "Even if it wasn't for very long. Even if the memory has probably started to fade by now. You got to know your parents, to experience what it's like to be loved by the people who brought you into the world. And as sad as it is that you lost your parents, there are people out there who will never even get a chance to know theirs."

I frown at him. Why is he saying all this? Yeah, it's true, but what's his point?

"I never knew my birth parents," he explains. "I don't know their names, I don't know where they're from. I don't know if they're still alive, if they ever wondered what might have happened to their child after-" He pauses for a second and takes a deep breath before going on. "The people who adopted me found me in a field. I was abandoned there. I was just a little under a year old at the time."

"Oh."

I see him wiping his face with the back of one hand. I don't know how to respond to any of this. Not at all. I'm here feeling sorry for myself, but this guy's had it worse than I have in a certain way. I would like to tell him I sympathize, but I'm not sure how to do that. What's the right thing to say? How sad is it that I haven't a clue?

"I just tell myself it was probably for the best," he says. "I was raised by a couple whose dream it was to have children, but they couldn't have any of their own. Finding me was as much a blessing to them as it was to me. I count myself lucky to have had what most people would say was a charmed childhood, with loving, supportive parents."

His voice is trembling slightly. I hope he doesn't start crying. What am I supposed to do with a guy who starts crying? I barely knew what to do with a child who was crying his eyes out – I haven't the faintest idea how I'm supposed to act around a grown man who is doing the same.

"I guess we're more alike than I thought," I finally manage to say. It sounds lame, but it's the only thing I found that doesn't make it sound like I couldn't care less.

"Yes, we are. I told you we were."

Mind you, we're very different, too. He's a cheerful, confident, positive person. And that's just not me at all. Not one bit. I'm bitter and jaded, and I don't trust anyone - sometimes, not even myself.

"Well, except for the nice adoptive parents," I tell him. "I was raised mostly by-" I catch myself about to give him details that might lead him to figure out who I am. "I spent most of my childhood in boarding schools – and my summers with a dear old friend of my parents. He meant well, but... I don't think he really had any idea what to make of me. What would a lifelong bachelor know about raising a kid anyway? When I fell down from a tree and scraped my knee, he fed me cookies."

I can't help but laugh a little bit. Alfred used to feed me cookies all the time, for any and every reason. Damn good cookies at that. God love him, I know he meant well, but the thing a kid really needs when he scrapes his knee is a hug from his mom and for her to tell him everything is going to be all right. As good as chocolate-chip cookies can be, they're not a substitute for compassion. At least, not in a kid's eyes.

"That would have been great with the buttermilk my mom used to give me," he says and I think I can see him smiling again. "You feeling any better?"

"Some." As much as I can feel better this evening, anyway.

"Good."

"Thanks, um, by the way," I mumble, and I turn on my side again.

I feel him moving closer to me. He's mere inches away now and I can feel the warmth of his body next to mine. He moves again, lifting the sheets momentarily. I go completely still when he wraps his arm around my waist, just below my ribcage and his hand comes to rest against my chest.

I close my eyes and force myself to relax. Without thinking, I lace my fingers – still clammy and cold - with his, robbing them of their warmth. The moment he squeezes my hand, I let out the breath I hadn't even realized I was holding. And I squeeze back, though barely even enough for him to notice, I'm sure.

He plants a kiss at the nape of my neck and it's like he's unleashed a wildfire on my skin. I sigh and press his hand closer to my chest in response. This is as close a gesture of true appreciation he's going to get out of me for the moment, though in a way, this is really huge.

"That's not against your rules, is it?" he whispers close to my ear. His warm breath tickles my skin and sends a long shiver through me. I move my head slightly, just enough so that my cheek brushes against his chin.

"No," I breathe. I would argue that they're not rules, but I really don't want argue right now. In spite of everything, I've gotten exactly what I came in here for and I'm not ruining it. Not this time.

I move just enough for our lips to meet. I wait for a moment so he'll know I'm not trying to force him into this – I've done it once and I want him to see that I'm not going to do it again. That if he doesn't act upon it, I'm not going to push it.

It takes just a short moment before he does act – I knew he would, really – and it feels so nice to kiss him. It seems to wash away everything that's gone so terribly wrong this evening. Everything that's made me feel so miserable and worthless. And alone. I don't want to feel alone anymore. Not now. Not tonight.

I turn on my side completely, facing him. "Help me." My voice trembles almost imperceptibly. "I'm tired of feeling alone."

He frowns. "You're not alone."

"No, I mean-" I don't know how to explain that _being_ alone and _feeling_ alone are not the same thing. One is just a physical state. The other is a feeling of emptiness – as if there's no one else out there who gives a damn about you. I can deal with the state of being – the other is too hard to cope with right now. "I need to _feel_... you know? Needed. Wanted." For a second, there's another word that comes to mind to complete the trio, but I push it as far out of my mind as I can. I don't want to think about that one. I can't think about that one. It's not the same and it doesn't have any business running around in my head at all.

"Like you belong?" he asks. His hand moves to lay against my chest, and I wrap my fingers around it, squeezing gently.

I nod. "Yeah. Something like that."

"I need that too," he says softly. There's so much desperation in his voice. "I think we both need help finding that place."

I hear myself reply, "Maybe it's right here tonight."

I don't know how or when I went from thinking that being with a guy was only about sex to...whatever this is, but I blame _him_ for it. Not that it's a bad thing. No, it's a good thing. And it feels very right. It's really not about sex at all, is it? Not that the possibility isn't there – in fact, I feel it becoming a very strong possibility, right this moment – but there's more to it than that. It's strange – I hadn't planned for things to turn out this way, not anywhere close. I'm not even really sure what this _is_ , but I have no intention of putting a stop to any of this right now.

"Maybe," he echoes in a whisper.

"I need- I, uh, want-" I clear my throat. I hate it when words stay stuck down there and don't want to come out. "You," I end up saying, barely louder than a whisper; barely loud enough for anyone to hear. "I need to be with you. Tonight. Now."

His eyes darken with desire. "I'd like nothing more."

I gently stroke his cheek before leaning in to kiss him, hungrily, passionately. I want him so badly; so desperately. Like he's the answer to all my questions. A balm for all my bruises; the remedy to all the pain. He responds just as fiercely, as though I'm all this to him as well.

He's been grinding against me for a moment now, and the touch of his erection brushing against mine is driving me mad with desire. I need to have him. Need to feel him writhing under me, to hear his cries of pleasure as I thrust into him, again and again. Need to know he's mine, like he's made me his this morning in the shower. I don't think I've ever wanted anything - or anyone - so badly in my entire life.

He pulls away, breathing heavily. "Bedside table," he pants.

I'm caught by surprise for a moment. By the urgency in his voice, but mostly by the fact that he'd be prepared for this already. And then a thought hits me - he hasn't prepared for this exactly; he just happens to have lubricant there, I don't know why that would come as a surprise, it's really quite normal. Logical even. I mean, he knew exactly what he was doing, in the shower, didn't he? Obviously he'd done that - and more - before, right? Though something about it causes odd feelings to surface -- a bit of dejection, I guess, as if I'd have any right to hope that I'd have been his first. And jealously, somehow? No, that's crazy, I don't really actually care that much, do I?

I turn on my side, reaching for the drawer on the bedside table, eyes half closed, heart pounding. I do care that much. Oh, dear god, I care way more than that, even. When did that happen? I could I let that happen? I'm so screwed.

As I grab the tube, I realize it's brand new. Never opened.

Maybe this was a bad idea after all. A moment ago, I was saddened by the fact that he'd had others before me, but realizing that it's likely not the case... The implications are huge now. I know he has feelings for me - I've known it for a while. And I... oh, hell, I have several of my own for him, too, but this... this would mean far more than just a casual "we had nothing better to do " thing. It'd be a big deal for him no matter what. And for me, because it's him and because I...

Can I do this? Can I? Knowing it won't lead anywhere? Knowing it can't possibly lead anywhere? There isn't any future in this. Is there? No. No, there isn't.

I turn toward him, frowning, my expression undoubtedly full of those questions. He just smiles and shrugs, a slight blush appearing on his cheeks. And I suddenly feel all awkward and... almost frightened.

"Does that, uh... You've... ah..." I have no idea how to ask, and I feel incredibly stupid for even bringing it up.

He sees me hesitating and grabs my hand. "I know you want it as much as I do," he tells me. "First, last - what difference does it make?"

"I just does," I reply, lamely.

"We're passed first anyway," he says. "You were my first already. This morning. You can't change that. Let me be yours, like you were mine."

I frown. "You're not my--"

"Of course I'm not," he replies, leaning in to brush his lips against mine. "It's not what I meant. Make me yours, like you were mine," he whispers as he kisses me. "Want you. Need you. Please..."

I push him gently away to get him to turn around.

He shakes his head. "No. I want to see you. I want to be able to see your face."

"Uh, but that would mean...?" Having sex with him is one thing, but this implies... this implies me... making love to him, and I can't _do_ that. "Because I don't... I..."

An odd smile tugs at his lips. "Of course you don't," he tells me, brushing a strand of hair away from my face.

"What if I did?" I whisper, without truly realizing that I've said it out loud.

"Then you'd know that I do, too," he says simply.

He reaches in and kisses me, and I just let go. For once, just let all the barriers down, and put as much into this one kiss as I possibly can, of anything and everything that I feel. I'll never really be able to let these words out - and he knows it just as much as I do; he knows me better that I do, after all. Words are useless anyway, they just get in the way.

I know you can tell. I know you know...that I've fallen in love with you.

=:=

I wake up several hours later. Confused, disoriented. And then my good sense catches up with me. What have I done? What have we done?

This can't be. I'm just fooling myself. And him. This isn't who I am. And he deserves better anyway. So much more, and better, than this. Than me. I can't give him what he needs, what he deserves. This was doomed from the start, I just let myself believe in some crazy notions - hope and love - because I needed to forget... Forget everything that's gone wrong, all the pain I've felt. But in doing that, all I've achieved is to cause pain in return. I'll have hurt him more than I ever should have had the right to.

He's sound asleep. He wouldn't notice if I left. He wouldn't be able to try and get me to stay. Which is a good thing, because I couldn't stand to see him try. I need to get away now, while I can. I can't stay here. And I couldn't say no if he asked me to, so I have to leave now. Right now.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, too softly for him to hear. "It's better this way."

I get up, as quietly as I can, and walk out of his room. I cast one last glance toward him - he's still sleeping - and pray that he doesn't wake up before I can slip out of his flat.

=:=

I left Birganj in the early hours of the morning. There was a bus going to Kathmandu, so I hopped on. I asked how long the trip would take, but I didn't catch most of the answer I got, so I'm not certain when I'll get there. I know it's several hours and we'll be traveling most of the day and likely into the night. The rest really doesn't make any difference to me at this point.

Alone with my thoughts, I find that they quickly, and invariably, gravitate toward _Kansas_. I should have known I couldn't escape... That leaving would not solve everything. It solves nothing - it was just the right thing to do.

Wasn't it?

Of course it was. I know it was. Better for everyone. For me. For him, too. Mostly for him. He'll hate me for leaving, of course. But he always knew I would, didn't he? I told him that I would - that I was trying to get to China. I wasn't going to stay in Birganj, and we both knew it.

And I couldn't stay with him. He knows that too. It was never meant to be. There wasn't any point thinking that this would ever lead anywhere, because it wasn't going to. He's a guy, and I'm a guy, and things just can't really work that way.

Besides, I couldn't be chained to someone right now. I don't know where I'm going, I'm not sure where my future lies. I need to be able to leave at a moment's notice - and having any sort of companion just doesn't make any sense in these conditions. I couldn't ask anyone to follow me blindly anyway - I don't know where I'll be tomorrow, I don't know what lies out there for me, it wouldn't be fair to force this life on someone else. He has a job, a life, and friends in Birganj - I couldn't ask him to abandon all of that just for me. It would make no sense at all.

So, it really is better this way. It doesn't matter what I feel deep down. I'll get over it. And he will too, I know he will. He'll find someone who'll be good to him - who isn't screwed up, who isn't basically incapable of expressing feelings, like I am. And he'll be happy. He'll be happier without me.

=:=

I've spent most of the day trying to convince myself that I'm doing the right thing. But if it _is_ the right thing, then why do I need to be convinced of it over and over? If it's the right thing, then why does it hurt so damn much?

I was wrong, wasn't I? I was wrong and I've just done the stupidest thing I could possibly have done, haven't I? I ran away from the one person who truly cared about me. I ran away so I wouldn't have to admit that I'd fallen in love with him. It would be foolish of me to deny this, because I have. Only, I shouldn't have. It's just crazy. I've never felt anything like this for anyone before and the first time I do, it had to be for another guy. It wasn't supposed to happen. It wasn't supposed to be this way. It's not in the plan, and it goes completely against most of my rules -- however stupid _some people_ think they might be.

I can't be in love with this guy. I just... can't. And besides, I'm not good for him - surely he had to know this, right from the start. He should have kept away from me. As far away as he possibly could have. Why did he have to be in that army transport? Why did he show up at the inn? And why, oh why, did he not just turn me away when I started making the world's most idiotic passes at him? He should have known better than to associate with me. He should have known better than to fall for me, and to make it impossible for me not to fall for him too.

How could I _not_ have fallen for this guy, really? He's just the sweetest, most caring, most beautiful soul I've ever met. He's the light in my darkness and the right to all my wrongs.

Oh, god, what have I done? How could I have left?

I need to go back. I-- I can't be here, I should be back there. I need to be back there. Have to go back. I can't stay on this bus, this isn't the path to my future I've embarked on, it's a path to self-destruction. How could I not have seen that before? I can't be on this path again. I can't. I need to turn around, now. Start facing things – start accepting the fact that I cannot possibly control everything. Stop denying myself every chance I have of being happy.

I have to go back. Run back. No... _crawl back_ , on my hands and knees. Apologize. Beg for forgiveness. I'll do anything, just oh, please, forgive the fool that I am -- for being blind and stupid and living in denial. I need to get back there, I have to tell him. I swear I'm going to tell him everything this time. My name, my story, everything.

I get up, brusquely, and make my way to the front of the bus, asking the driver to let me out. He says that it's not safe to leave me out here all alone, so I protest that it doesn't matter. That I need to get off. Now. Right now. I even go as far as to tell him that my life depends on it. Which isn't stretching the truth all that much, really. But there's no reasoning with him – he won't let me out.

I guess I'll just have to find another way out, then.

I walk to the back of the bus - it's one of those things that resemble the yellow school buses we have back home, so I know that there's a back door and I know how to open it, too. It takes me several long seconds of pushing and pulling on the rusted security handle before it gives. So much for getting out in a hurry during an emergency! I finally manage to get the damn door opened and I jump right out of the bus, amidst complaints and screams from the other passengers.

The bus stops just a few yards away. The driver comes out and runs around to the back. He yells something at me in Nepali, most of which I don't understand. I only know that the words he's using aren't the least bit complimentary.

I get up off the ground, ignoring the man and his insults, and start running in the opposite direction. Until I stumble and fall to the ground.

I remain there for a moment, on my knees, elbows and forehead against the dusty road, berating myself for being stupid and heartless, and silently praying that there's a chance - I don't care how slim, just a chance - that he'll let me inside once I get there. And then I can explain. And apologize. And maybe we can start over.

I finally pick myself up and start to walk. About a mile later, I manage to hitch a ride back to Birganj at the back of a truck that's bringing sheep into the city. They seem to be quite interested by my presence and I notice that some have taken to chewing on my coat, but I don't give a damn. They can drool all over me for all I care. As long as I get back to town, I don't care what state I'm in when I arrive.

Time stretches beyond my control. Seconds seem to last forever. The sun set hours ago, I think. Or was it just minutes? I don't know where I am. I'm not sure why it's taking so long to get back. Soon I start wondering if we're even going in the right direction. What if we're not? What if the truck driver has taken a turn somewhere and we're not going back to Birganj? How am I supposed to get back there if I don't have any idea which way to go?

I'm just about driving myself insane with senseless questions and anxieties when I realize that we've stopped. I look around and see that we're parked just on the outskirts of town.

We're here. I made it back.

I jump off the back of the truck, thank the driver and throw him a few rupees, then I head off in the familiar direction of my friend's flat. Heart pounding, stomach in knots, thoughts running madly in my head.

When I finally get there, I see there's a light on, but the drapes are closed, so I can't see inside well enough to know if _Kansas_ is there or not. I knock at the door, gently at first. I wait – a minute maybe – but there's no answer.

I start pounding on the door. Hitting it so hard with my fist that my hand goes completely numb and I can barely feel the rest of my arm. I think I've kicked the door a couple of times, even - I'm not sure. The only thing I can tell for certain now is that he's not there.

One of the neighbors sticks his head out of a window to see what the clamor is about. He seems to recognize me.

"You not stay here," he informs me in a very broken English. "You go. He now gone,"

Gone? I ask the man to explain what he means by gone. I can see that no one's home right now, but there's a light on, meaning he might be back later. Right? But the man shakes his head and tells me a few more things, most of them in Nepali, and I don't understand all of it. Or at least, I'm pretty sure I don't understand well, because he's just called my friend a monster, and I don't see how that makes any sense at all.

The man disappears back inside his home, shaking his head, telling me to leave as I just stand there, completely dumbfounded.

How could _Kansas_ be gone? Why would he have left? Where would he have gone? No, no, that makes no sense. Obviously this is just a misunderstanding – a miscommunication. Something that got lost in translation, along with the rest of the man's explanation.

I kneel in front of the door and pick the lock. I've done it once before...

As the door opens and I peer inside the apartment, I'm faced with the realization that he is, indeed, gone.

I walk inside, numbly, and look around. There isn't a thing left inside the apartment. Not a single piece of furniture. It's _all_ gone. Like he's never lived here before.

I know I'm at the right place, and I know I didn't imagine the time I spent here. There's just nothing left. Not even the smallest reminder of him. Nothing at all.

He's gone.

He left and I don't know where he went. I don't know where to find him.

I don't even know his name.


	12. Chapter 12

_Gotham City, present day._

I've spent the better part of the last four years looking for him.

I still haven't got the slightest idea where he might be. I don't have the slightest idea who he _is_.

All I have left are memories.

When I close my eyes, I can see the smile on his face. I can hear his voice in my mind, as clearly as if it had been yesterday. Sometimes, in the silence, I can even hear his soft cries of pleasure from that night. I haven't forgotten a second of it – I will never forget, not one single detail. From the warmth of his skin, to the taste of his mouth, the inflection in his voice, and the look in his eyes.

It plays like a movie, late at night, when I'm alone in the darkness.

Only memories.

And sometimes, a sharp pang in the center of my chest – when I miss him so much it actually, physically, hurts.

I've looked for him everywhere I could possibly think of. But without a name or even a picture, it's hard to get much information at all. No matter how many ways I try to describe him, people cannot see the images in my head – the lopsided smile or the light in his eyes. I can have all the images I want drawn, but it’s never really him. And no one - myself included - recognizes the person they see on paper.

He'd told me that he did freelance work for a newspaper. That's where I started my search... But no one matching his description – even remotely so - had worked in any of the local newspapers in Nepal. I checked around in India and China, too, but found no traces of him there, either. I can only guess that he must have been a foreign correspondent, but I checked every publication that I could get my hands on from that time period and I looked for articles about Nepal that had been printed in them - I found nothing. Ultimately, no matter how hard I looked, the newspaper trail turned out to be a dead end.

I've tried to find out where he could have gone after he left Birganj. but that too, turned out to be a wild-goose chase.

Then, I went through lists upon lists of airline passengers from the U.S. that had left the country in or around the same timeframe as he'd said it had been since he had arrived in Asia. I checked out all the names – anyone who had left the United States in the four months before our paths crossed. But I didn't find him there. I found plenty of people from Kansas who ended up matching his description – none of them turned out to be him.

Realizing that perhaps he had transited through another part of the world, or used another means of transportation, I looked at more records and lists. Anything I could get my hands on, but he wasn't in any of those, either. Unless he swam straight across the ocean, I'm not sure how he managed to get to Asia at all.

I even went so far as to check adoption records for the state of Kansas, though I'm not entirely certain how old he is. I checked several years' worth of paperwork - he didn’t turn up there. He had told me that he was a foundling, though, so that had to explain it, right? He’d show up eventually - on a census form, a tax return, something.

Only he doesn’t.

No matter how good I am at following a trace, I just can't find any of him anywhere. I would have an easier time trying to locate the Yeti than finding this guy's trail! You'd almost think I was searching for a ghost, someone who only exists in my own, twisted imagination.

Sometimes I wonder if there really is any point in looking anymore. Clearly he's done everything he could so that no one would ever find him. Me included. Or is that me, especially?

You'd think after so long I would have given up, in fact. But the truth is that I can't. I _need_ to find him again.

I need to find him if only so that I may put to rest all the guilt and the pain I've felt since that night when I came back and he was gone. I need to find him so I can tell him all those things I wasn't able to tell him then – that I wouldn't let myself tell him. My name, my story, everything... Right down to the three little words that I fought so hard against. Three little words that I pushed back to the far recesses of my mind, telling myself – convincing myself – that they weren't real, that they weren't there, that they couldn't be said. Small words, which, at the time, were far too big – too significant – to seem believable.

I ran away from something I'd been looking for. I guess I just couldn't deal with the fact that I'd actually found it. That I could _have_ it. I don't know what went through my head at the time – some crazy logic, some insane idea of what was right and what was wrong. As though the world was black and white.

It's not.

There is neither black nor white, only shades of gray.

I left behind the one thing I needed most, and it doesn't look like I will ever find it again. I've looked for it in other places; I've looked for it long and hard, in so many people, but it was just never truly there at all. It lies only with him. And as time  
goes on, I'm slowly losing hope that I will ever get it back again. Get _him_ back again.

=:=

I'm awoken by Alfred's abrupt opening of the drapes in my bedroom. I wish he would quit making executive decisions as to what time is appropriate for me to get up in the morning. I was out all last night. And I don't mean out _partying_ \- not this time. Last night was Batman's first official outing.

"Bats are nocturnal," I complain, pulling the sheets over my eyes to shield them from the sun.

"Bats may be," he concedes, "but even for billionaire playboys, three o'clock is pushing it." He sets down a tray with breakfast and today's newspaper on the bedside table. "The price for leading a double life, I fear."

Three o'clock? Already? I rub my eyes and grab today's paper as he holds it out.

"Your theatrics made an impression," he tells me, taking a seat.

I drag myself into a sitting position. “Theatricality and deception are powerful weapons, Alfred.” I don’t look up from examining the front page. “It’s a good start.”

Alfred looks me up and down, frowning. I've got large bruises on my chest and arms. They're a nasty purple color. Souvenirs from what took place last night, down at the docks.

"If those are to be the first of many other injuries to come," he says thoughtfully, "it will be wise to find a suitable excuse... Polo, for instance."

"I'm not learning polo, Alfred." Is he out of his mind? When do I have time to learn a useless sport? I barely manage to get enough sleep as it is.

"Strange injuries and non-existent social life... These things beg the question as to what exactly does Bruce Wayne do with his time and his money."

I gulp down the protein shake he's brought, then drop to the floor for a set of push-ups. "And what does someone like me do?" I expect Alfred has probably already worked out all the answers.

"Drive sports cars, date movie stars, buy things that are not for sale... who knows, Master Wayne? You start pretending to have fun, you might even have a little by accident."

Fun? Somehow I doubt that.

It appears I'll be stuck putting on an act, even in my private life. Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy - that's so unlike me... But I guess I've no choice but to play the part.

And while Batman is a lot closer to who I really am, this isn't exactly me, either.

Batman is a symbol of sorts – I'm still just a man.

I guess this leaves me somewhere in the middle of the two - and I can never truly be myself. Not when there's someone else looking.

There are only two people left in the world who have any idea what I'm _really_ like – on the inside. One is Alfred, obviously. The other...

"Oh, by the way," Alfred says, interrupting my thoughts. "If you turn to page three, it seems you aren't the only one who made an impression last night. In fact, if this wasn't the Gotham City Gazette, Batman might have been relegated to page three himself."

"Huh?"

I'm not sure what sort of impression he means, but he's got me curious. I sit up and reach for the paper that I left on the bed, quickly turning to page three. The headline immediately catches my eye: "Mysterious Phenomena In Space!"

Apparently a man single-handedly saved the space program by pushing a space shuttle into space. With his bare hands. A man who _flies_. Of his very own power, no less.

Whoa.

And they're not kidding, either. There's a picture; they have quotes. Besides, this is the Gotham City Gazette - they wouldn't print _anything_ unless they had factual proof of it. Short of The Daily Planet, this is the most reliable source of printed information you can get your hands on.

I take a closer look at the picture - and I can’t help but gasp.

It's not possible. It can't be.

This man... No, no. Surely my eyes are playing tricks on me. This man _flies_ , for crying out loud. There is no earthly way he could possibly be the same person I met in Nepal. There's no way. It's just not possible.

But as I take in every detail of this picture, I can't ignore the facts any longer. I don't see how this could possibly be someone else. It's so strange, so unbelievable, all the same. Yet, it has to be him.

It _is_ him.

No wonder I couldn't find him anywhere... This guy can actually fly!

In an instant, I’m on my feet and scrambling for clothes. “Get the car, Alfred. We’re going shopping for some things that can’t be bought - in Metropolis.”

"Going to size up the competition?" Alfred asks, a definite trace of humor in his voice.

"He is not competition, Alfred. I'm not-" I shake my head. "I'm not anywhere _near_ this guy's league."

"Ah, but I'm quite certain that you and he are more similar than you think."

I refrain from telling him how right he is.

=:=

It's taken me several days, but I finally manage to catch up to him on a rooftop, late one night.

My heart skips a beat when I see him. As much as I knew this moment was coming - finally seeing him standing before me - as much as I prepared for it mentally, I guess I wasn't truly ready for it to happen. It's unlike anything I expected.

"You're a tough man to track down," I tell him in my best Batman voice. I don't want him to know who I am - not just yet.

He turns and looks at me for the first time. He looks so odd in the blue and red spandex suit, cape billowing in the cool autumn breeze. But it's still him. His hair is different – shorter, straighter. The glasses are gone, and no matter how serious he's trying to look, those are still the same soft brown eyes. They're still as gentle as they've ever been.

"Oh," he says simply. "It's you."

"You know who I am?" I ask, trying to hide my surprise. He couldn't possibly recognize me, could he? What with the armor, and the cowl, and the inflexion in my voice that isn't completely mine. No, he's probably just seen Batman on the news.

"I know exactly who you are," he says stiffly. "Bruce Wayne, Gotham City's prodigal son."

"How?" I ask slowly, disbelievingly. How could he possibly know?

"Well, for one, I have X-ray vision." He points to his eyes, sighing. "But in truth, I heard your heartbeat about a mile ago."

Wait... what? "My _heartbeat_?"

He shrugs. "Yeah. Enhanced hearing. Enables me to hear things most people can't. For instance, did you know that everyone's heartbeat is different? No two sound alike. I can also tell, just by the rhythm, when someone I know is in trouble. Let's say they're getting their ass kicked by a couple of goons, for example. Well, I can locate them in a jiff and... you know... fly in and save the day?" His tone is literally dripping with sarcasm.

He wasn't kidding when he said he knew _exactly_ who I was. "So all along, you knew who I was and where to find me?" By now, I've dropped the Batman act altogether - there's obviously no point.

"Of course I did."

"I- You- If-" My mind stutters for a moment, in complete confusion. "Obviously I've just been wasting my time looking for you."

"Didn't know you cared enough to look," he says bitterly.

"I thought you knew me better than that. I've been... _looking for you_... for the better part of four years." Before I can think the better of it, I throw my own accusation at him, "More than I can say for you."

"Go to hell!" he says in a low, menacing voice that seems so completely unlike him. Immediately he lifts off the ground.

"No!" He's not leaving before I'm done saying what I came here to say. I don't care that there's no point anymore. I didn't come all this way for him to fly off in the middle of this. "I've been to hell. I've lived there for the last four years. I'm _not_ going back."

He just stares at me, not saying a word, hovering a few feet above ground.

"Get back down here, dammit!"

He lands, arms crossed in front of his chest in his most defiant superhero pose. "What do you want from me?"

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone when you don't even know their name?"

"You could have known all along, you realize. Those are _your_ stupid rules, _Sherlock_. Not mine."

I close my eyes for a brief second. I used to hate hearing him call me that. I hated it so much. But I've spent four years hoping that some day he'd call me that again. And... he might have used it condescendingly just now, knowing it would sting, but I don't care. It's the sweetest thing I've heard in years. The nicest thing anyone's said to me since I left Birganj.

"I know, I know, my stupid rules." I shake my head dejectedly. "I can't really expect you to understand, but they made sense to me at the time. Which doesn't make it any smarter, and I really have no good argument in my defense other than I was just trying to protect a secret. If anyone knows what that's like, I should imagine you would... _Superman_."

"Clark," he says hesitantly. "My name... is Clark."

"Clark..." I echo, letting his name roll off my tongue slowly. "If you knew how to find me all this time... Why didn't you...?"

He raises an eyebrow, as though I should already know the answer. "I didn't figure you wanted to be found. You made it plainly clear that this wasn't going anywhere, anyway, right? And then you left."

"And I came back again."

"Right," he snorts. "You come back, four years later and expect--"

"No," I interrupt immediately. "I came back again that same evening. I finally realized what a horrible mistake I was making and that I just couldn't- didn't want to- I... I came back. Only by then you were gone, too. Gone without leaving a trace."

For a moment he stands there, a look of surprise crossing his face. "I couldn't stay," he explains finally. "I had to leave. If you'd been there, things might have been different, but you weren't. You chose to disappear in the middle of the night, without a word. Without even so much as goodbye."

I bow my head in defeat. "I know... And I'm sorry I did that. You have no idea how sorry I am. I didn't know... I didn't know what else to do."

"Of course not. Facing your fears, facing real life - not something you actually ever wanted to do, was it?"

My head snaps back up. "And what do you think I'm doing right now?"

"No idea," he says, shrugging in an exaggerated fashion. "I stopped trying to understand you ages ago."

"Oh, please. You never even had to _try_. From the moment we met, you understood me better than anyone." I speak the words quietly, forgetting for a moment that he‘ll hear me regardless. "Better than I understood myself."

"Apparently not." His voice is barely above a whisper. "I thought you'd left for good. And I never expected you'd want to find me again."

"What happened then?" I ask, concerned, unable to silence the question that's been eating away at my mind. "What happened to you?"

He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter anymore. And you don't have to pretend that you care."

"I'm not pretending. I do care," I insist, though softly. "If anyone's pretending here, it's not me. Tell me what happened, Clark? Please. Tell me what happened that made you hate me."

"You left," is all he says, in so wounded a tone that for a moment I just don't know what to do anymore.

"And then what happened?" I finally ask as I find my voice again. "What made _you_ leave?"

He sighs again. "Your friends came back for you. Your _Persian_ friends."

"They came back for me, but found you instead?" I frown, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together.

"Oh, they found the whole neighborhood, actually. Lined everyone up - men, women and children - bound and gagged. And then they threatened to shoot, unless I told them where to find you."

I look at him, horrified, mouth gaping open, unable to speak.

"So there you go... Same thing as always, really." He shrugs. "Miraculous rescue, people saw me use my abilities. And then I had to leave. I flew off to Africa."

"I'm so sorry," I tell him. "I wish I'd known."

He frowns. "What difference would it have made? You really think I would have handed you to them? I thought you knew me better than that. Go back to your movie stars and your groupies, Bruce," he says bitterly. "What's done is done and we both have better things to do with our time than rehashing the past."

It's my turn to frown. "Now wait a second... movie stars and groupies? Those are just a facade. That's not who I am." If anyone should know that, I would think it would have been him.

"Oh no? Then tell me... who _are_ you? Because _that_ picture was never really clear, was it?"

"Fair enough," I agree. "Part of why I came here was because I had things I wanted to say, after all. Things I should have told you, long ago, but didn't; all for the sake of protecting a secret that wasn't even a secret to you, anyway."

I shake my head. Oh, how I wish he'd told me back then that he knew - things might have been different, then. He looks at me expectantly, so I keep going.

"Let me just give you the Cliff's Notes version since you know most of it already," I say with a nervous chuckle. "My name is Bruce Wayne. I was born in Gotham City. When I was eight years old, my parents were murdered in a dark alley outside a theater. I saw them get shot. I saw them die. I spent years trying to escape the constant guilt, the remorse. And then I tried to disappear, which is how I ended up in Nepal. Eventually, I found my way to China and to the realization of what I was supposed to do with the rest of my life. So I came back to Gotham, and now, when the night comes, I turn into someone else – someone criminals fear. Batman." I take a long, steadying breath as I prepare to tell him the rest of what's on my mind. That other thing I've never told him and that I don't want to keep hidden anymore.

But I've taken too long to gather my courage, it seems, because he's decided it's his turn to do away with secrets.

"I was born on the planet Krypton."

He pauses and looks at me, as if afraid of what my reaction will be to the fact that he isn't human. I nod, encouraging him on. Honestly, I couldn't care less if he was from Jupiter or Mars – where he's from doesn't make the least bit difference to me. But I'm not going to interrupt his confession.

"I grew up on Earth," he continues. "In Smallville, Kansas. My adoptive parents named me Clark Kent. I've traveled around the world for several years after college, running away from things, in a certain way. Hiding from the reality that I'm not like everyone else. Eventually, I got tired of running and I came back home. I currently live in Metropolis and work as an investigative reporter for The Daily Planet. And I..." He gives me a crooked smile and gestures at his outfit. "...am Superman."

"Thank you," I say with a nod. "But I wasn't done...before. There's something else. Something I should have told you, a very long time ago."

"Oh?"

"I-" I clear my throat quickly, if I have to choke to get the words out, then that's just how it's going to be. I'm going to say this. And I'm going to say this, _now_. It's scary how big a deal this is. It's huge. But I've been kicking myself for the last four years for not being able to get the words out when I should have. I'm not going to spend another four years, another _hour_ , hating myself for being so afraid. "I... I'm in love with you. There was a huge void inside me before we met, and now... I'm just... _broken_ without you."

I close my eyes and let out the breath I'd been holding, leaning back on the wall behind me for support. My heart is just about to pound out of my chest and I realize that I'm more afraid of what he'll say now than I was of saying these words to him. In fact, the possibility of being rejected is far more frightening than facing any crazy escapee from Arkham can ever be.

When I open my eyes again, I find him looking back at me – his expression is completely unreadable. I haven't the slightest idea what's going on in his head. All I know is that I hoped to see something, in his eyes, in his smile, that's just not there at all.

Happy endings and I have never gotten along before – why should this be any different?

Suddenly I feel a desperate need to leave. I truly, honestly don't want to hear him tell me that maybe we can be friends or some other bullshit. I don't want to be friends with him. Friends is not enough.

"Of course you've moved on," I say dejectedly, pushing him aside so I can make my exit. "I'm an idiot. Why did I even think--"

"Bruce?" He sounds startled.

"It is all right, Clark," I spit out bitterly. "I get it."

"No," he insists. "You don't get it."

He stood to my left a second ago, but is now standing right in front of me, forcing me to look at him. Damn this guy and his super abilities!

"It's fine. Don't worry about it. Just... let me go, okay?"

I'm tired and all I want now is to go back home and lick my wounds. Forget about all of this once and for all and really move on this time.

"No!" he protests. "You're not going anywhere. Not this time."

He grabs my arms and as much as I want to fight him off, I know there's no point in even trying. This guy is a million times stronger than I am.

"Oh, that's it," I throw at him, "keep me here with that super strength-"

"Shut up, you big oaf!" he immediately orders, looking like he finds this all very amusing.

"What the-? How dare-"

"Shut up, Bruce." This time he's not laughing.

He's mere inches away and I suddenly get the distinct feeling that I've completely misunderstood him. He wasn't about to reject me, was he?

"Clark?"

"Shut up," he says, one last time, whispering the words against my lips.

There is a sigh – I am not sure if it comes from me, or him, or both of us – and the briefest moment of hesitation. And then our lips meet.

"I have been... in love... with you..." he tells me between kisses, "for so long."

"And I have been... such a fool," I whisper. "I'm sorry... so... so sorry."

He's wrapped his arms around my neck, and I curse the stupid armor I'm encased in that won't let me feel anything, even the warmth of his skin.

"Hang on, just a second." I move away slightly and start pulling at my gloves. "Need... to take... these... off!"

He takes a short step back, just to give me enough space to move, and I throw the gloves away before ripping the cowl off my head and letting it drop unceremoniously to the ground. I look back up to find him trying very hard not to laugh – there's a twitch on the side of his mouth and a sparkle of humor in his eyes. And as nice as it is to see him like this, I have a really nasty feeling I'm the reason he's so amused.

"What?"

"Nothing..." He can barely keep himself from laughing.

"Right. Nothing," I say, slightly irritated. I don't appreciate being laughed at. The least he could do would be to clue me in on what's so damn funny! "Come on! What'cha laughing at?"

"You look-" he starts saying, desperate to keep a straight face, but failing miserably. "You look like you've got-"

He's laughing now. Really laughing. You'd think I'd be seriously annoyed, but in fact, I'm this close to laughing myself, even though I don't know what he's even laughing at. His laughter is just infectious.

Finally, he manages to spit out, "You look like you have two black eyes." And he just about falls over laughing.

"Oh." Stupid eye makeup. Yeah, it looks awful once I take the cowl off, but what else can I do? It would no doubt look even worse without it. "Laugh all you want, _Superman_ ," I remark sardonically, "at least I don't wear my underwear on the outside."

He stops laughing immediately and crosses his arms in front of his chest in a defiant manner. It's not as amusing when the shoe is on the other foot, is it? I'm the one who's having a hard time keeping a straight face now.

"My mother made it for me," he tells me, his tone as steely as the look in his eyes.

"Oh, I bet she did," I say in a fit of laughter, the likes of which I have not succumbed to in years.

I'm laughing so much my stomach hurts, and my eyes are filling with tears. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, no doubt smudging black paint all over my face. Way to make yourself look smart, Bruce!

I look up to see him bursting into laughter again and I can't help but laugh even harder. It takes a good few minutes before we're able to stop and regain some semblance of seriousness.

His eyes still sparkle with humor. "So, tell me... What's a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?"

I raise an eyebrow at him. I remember the last time we had this conversation all too well. Except last time, he was on the receiving end, and it wasn't a pick-up line. This... might be.

"I'm _not_ nice," I protest slyly. I've got a feeling he was expecting some sort of putdown, and I'm definitely going to give him a run for his money.

"I used to think you were, once," he replies immediately. "Or twice."

Damn this guy and his super speed – he can think of snarky remarks half a million times faster than I ever will.

I give him a crooked smile. "Oh, I was nice to you more than twice."

"Too bad you're no longer a nice guy." His voice has turned a little huskier, his eyes a little darker, and he's standing just a little closer, too.

"I could be again," I tell him before whispering, “for you.”

The hint of laughter in his eyes is replaced by something...primal and raw. "Let's get out of here," he breathes.

The next thing I know, he's holding me tightly against him, I'm wearing the cowl again, and we're several feet up in the air.

"Whoa!" I exclaim as my stomach settles back in its rightful place. "You planning on taking me back to your secret lair?"

"Yours, mine," he says with a lopsided smile. "Anywhere you'd like to be."

I brush a kiss against his lips, then smile wickedly. "I wouldn't mind being...you know...in Kansas."

"Just in?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "Or did you mean... in, and out... and in, and...."

"Oh yeah," is all I manage to get out before he whisks us off into the night sky.

I'm not sure where we're going, and I don't mind - anywhere is fine, as long as he's there with me.

=:=:=

Epilogue -

I open my eyes and the first thing I see are two brown eyes staring back at me. I stretch and yawn and when I'm done, realize that he's still looking right at me.

"How long have you been watching me sleep?" I ask groggily.

"I just woke up," he tells me. For some reason I'm pretty sure it's far from the truth.

"And you have nothing better to do than watching me sleep?" It was amusing for half a second when I woke up, but he'd better stop staring pretty soon if he expects this to be a good morning.

"Not right now, no." He's got a teasing grin on his face.

I glare at him, but his smile just widens. I guess I can't win them all.

I close my eyes again. "Stop staring, will you?"

A moment later, I feel the bed move. I open my eyes and see him walking away.

"Where are you going?" I ask, frowning.

"To see if I can find anything I can call breakfast..."

"It's too early to get up," I protest, yawning. It's Sunday and I'm pretty sure neither of us has anywhere we need to be today.

"You can sleep some more if you want to. I'll try not to make too much noise."

"No, silly," I complain with a half smile. "That's code for _'come back to bed'_."

He laughs. "Oh, so the rules have been replaced by a code, have they? Please make sure you give my secretary a copy of the book, will you? "

"Secretary? Since when do you have a--"

"I don't," he explains, still laughing. "That's code for _'lose the damn book'_."

"Fine, fine." I roll my eyes. "Just come back to bed... Please?"

He slips back between the covers and scoots over, gently throwing an arm over me. "Better?" he whispers in my ear.

"Much."

He nuzzles my neck with a contended sigh and brushes a kiss against my shoulder before letting his head drop back softly on the pillow.

A moment passes and, out of the corner of my eye, I notice that his eyes are fixed on my face again. "You're still staring, aren't you?"

"Mmhmm."

Suddenly I worry that he's been thinking all along about something I just realized - we've never had a "morning after" before - and I immediately want to reassure him that this isn't going to turn into a repeat of the last time we were in bed together. "I'm not going to disappear this time, you know. You can close your eyes. I'll still be here when you open them again."

"I know," he says softly. "I just like the way the sun catches your face. And...there's a little part of me that's still kind of stuttering in disbelief and needs to make sure that this isn't just a dream."

I can't help but smile. There's a part of me that's just like that, too. "I'm real, I promise."

Trailing kisses along my jaw line, he says, "I'm glad...'cause the rest of me is in love with you..."

"And I love you, my sweet, beautiful _Kansas_."

  
 **~ The End ~**

**Author's Note:**

> I barely ever work without music playing in the background. It helps me concentrate – helps me get in a certain mood, sometimes, too. And I usually listen to the same songs over and over and over again. In fact, while I worked on this story during NaNoWriMo, I listened to the soundtrack from Batman Begins a grand total of sixty-seven times. The other playlist I listened to obsessively is what I would call my own personal soundtrack for this story. iTunes tells me I heard that one forty times. Both playlists apparently last an hour each. Think about it... (I didn't count all the extra hours of editing and rewriting that I put into it, though. Else you'll think I'm probably out of my mind!)
> 
> In case this is of interest to anyone, here are the songs from my "soundtrack" for the story:  
> \- Vespertilio, by Hans Zimmer & James Newton Howard  
> \- First Time, by Lifehouse  
> \- Breathe Me, by Sia  
> \- Collide, by Dishwalla  
> \- Superman (It's Not Easy), by Five for Fighting  
> \- You & Me, by Lifehouse  
> \- All the Same, by Sick Puppies  
> \- It's Not Over, by Daughtry  
> \- Broken, by Lifehouse  
> \- It Ends Tonight, by The All-American Rejects  
> \- Here Without You (iTunes Originals Version), by 3 Doors Down  
> \- From Where You Are, by Lifehouse  
> \- Far Away, by Nickelback  
> \- Molossus, by Hans Zimmer & James Newton Howard


End file.
